If You'd Let Me
by AliceStaresAtStars
Summary: Gilbert loves Arthur. Arthur loves Francis. Francis loves Arthur and everyone else. One fatal decision, three years of heartbreak - for Arthur and Gilbert both. When lines are blurred and love and friendship clash, things are bound to get sticky. Please read and review, it is so massively appreciated. Full summary inside. Luvyoubyee! ASAS xx
1. Cover and summary

**If you'd let me**

**By AliceStaresAtStars**

**Pairings: Onesided! And Eventual PrUK, UnFaithful!FrUK, France x the World a bit, significantly FrSpa, mentioned Spamano and GerIta, possible onesided!PruHun, but just a whisper.**

**Summary (full): Gilbert has watched his best friend Arthur betrayed by the man he loves, and Gilbert's other best friend, François. He is also in love with Arthur, but set him up with François. Gilbert is getting tired of mopping up Arthur's tears in various dodgy pubs. When forced to choose between love and friendship, things are going to get sticky.**

**Also including: Arthur-Antonio hatred, BTT, FBT, Magic Trio (sort of), booze, swearing, boy-on-boy mind-and-real sex, implied and detailed. You have been warned.**

**This has been re-uploaded, with fairly significant edits, so please read or re-read, and please, please review, even just to say what a piece of shite it was.**

**My first fanfic, so be nice. I love FrUK but plotwise this makes sense, and I love PrUK more almost, so it's all good. This is more of a series of interconnected one-shots than a flowing story, but I promise a plot will come out of this, and there should be an ending of some shape or form. Most probably happy, because while I enjoy writing angst sometimes, I tend to get emotionally attached to my (versions) of characters)**

**Haters will be slow-cooked and served with a red wine **_**jus**_** and rosemary potatoes.**

**I will be light on A/Ns unless requested, henceforth.**

**I write in British English, so if anyone needs any info on any slang I may have unwittingly used, (e.g. pissed to mean drunk, along with smashed, sloshed, rat-arsed, trollied, etc.) PM me.**

**None of this, excepting the dodgy plot, belongs to me. All characters copyright/trademarks of Hidekaz Himaruya.**

**Thanks for reading,**

**Luvyoubyee!**

**ASAS xxx**

**P.S. If there are any scenes you like and that I haven't fully gone into detail on, e.g. Arthur and Gilbert's meeting, PM me if you would like:**

**- Me to do a one-shot**

**- To write it yourself **

**- To do a collab**

**Thanks!**


	2. Punks, Drunks and Deja Vu

_Punks, Drunks and Déjà Vu_

Arthur = 23

Gilbert =24

Gilbert walked into the bar, looking for the familiar fluffy blonde head of hair. It was October, and dark and cold with it. Gilbert's cheeks were flushed from the sudden change in temperature, and he removed his gloves and stuffed them in his pockets. He looked around with a mixture of resignation and warmth; the bar was small and crap, and they'd served the same two types of beer since 1909, but it was welcoming, and sort of homely. He and Arthur, who he was meeting, were conspicuously the youngest in there by some way. There were about five other patrons. They were all middle aged men who drank alone, obviously having spent their lives in this bar. You could see they were all just getting to the age where they looked back and wondered what the fuck happened.

Arthur and Gilbert were probably the only twenty-somethings in the world who enjoyed getting absolutely sloshed quietly in the corner of some crap pub over conversation about nothing and the occasional diversion into the real world for traffic-cone based trouble-making as much as going out, getting ostentatiously rat-arsed and then laid in a club, and boasting about it to your friends later. It was an amazing coincidence that they'd found each other, really.

It was a regular thing they did, although Gilbert was finding it more than a little depressing of late.

He grimaced as he saw his drinking buddy sitting at a bar stool, punk clothes on and piercings in, surrounded by shot glasses. Arthur rarely goes punk anymore; only and always when he's hurt. It's the easiest way to tell he's upset. Says it makes him feel safe. Gilbert thinks it's truthfully because it takes him back to a better time – a happier time.

He slid onto the seat next to Arthur, and ordered a beer. He didn't need to ask any questions, just to look at the man next to him. Arthur understands, and utters one word. "Dylan." Gilbert physically winced. He knew the man was a complete douche, but Arthur's Welsh twin brother? That's beyond douchey, and into the realms of pure evil.

They sit together in companionable silence, Gilbert's hand occasionally straying to Arthur's upper arm or shoulder. Never lower – Gilbert can't cross the line, no matter how much he wants to. He is proving to himself that he is better than the cause of all Arthur's heartbreak.

Several beers later (although he noted Arthur wasn't drinking anymore, perhaps waiting for him to catch up; how gentlemanly of him) Gilbert looked over at the inebriated man next to him. His blond hair was fluffy and even more flyaway than usual; the man's own hand yanked and run through it so many times it looked like the sheep's wool you find caught on wire fences in the countryside – matted, coarse and wild. His face was tear-stained and his eyes were blood shot, and Gilbert cursed his so-called best friend for rendering his drinking buddy this openly weeping husk of a man. He desperately wanted to wrap his arms around the man, who was currently nursing his fifth or sixth rum, wanted to comfort him, never let him go. Gilbert cursed himself silently for acting so sappy and unAwesome (for Gilbert, awesome always had a capital), and then decided to blame it on the large amount of beer he had ingested. You can blame any feelings you don't understand on alcohol, after all.

It was at this point Arthur made his first contribution to the conversation for quite some time. "Would it be too much for him to just love me?" His tone was pained and resigned.

It damn near broke Gilbert's heart.

He paused for a second, considering what to say. He said "He's an unAwesome snail-slurping bastard who can go screw himself." He thought, for what felt like the fiftieth time, _I would love you, if you'd just let me. _Considers the thought. Adds, _Ugh, I'm too Awesome for this. Unrequited love sucks. _Another epiphany to be blamed on beer.

Arthur's tone was dry as he responded to his friend's comment. "Heh, he doesn't need to screw himself. He's got everyone else for that."

Arthur knew Francis cheated. Indeed, he had caught him red handed, so to speak, every time. Francis was spectacularly unsubtle about it, bringing lovers home whenever the mood struck him. He had no trouble in pulling people, and no qualms in lying about his relationship status. Most importantly, he didn't seem to care enough to make sure Arthur wasn't coming back any time soon. In fact, once he had even crashed into the house kissing a lover while Arthur was in. Arthur came a little too close to strangling him that time.

He couldn't count off all the people Francis had fucked on both his hands.

Antonio, numerous times. His hatred for that man knew no bounds.

Lovino, the angrier of the two Italian brothers. He wasn't entirely mad at Lovino, safe in the knowledge that he had jumped into bed with Francis as a form of twisted revenge on Antonio, his boyfriend, for cheating on him with the "snail bastard". Arthur made a mental note to take him out for a drink sometime, after that.

Michelle, which wasn't entirely unexpected. Her and Arthur's break-up had been messy, and she devised the perfect vengeance, with which Francis was all too happy to assist her.

Feliciano, Lovino's brother, who had no idea Francis and Arthur were an item. They had met through Antonio: Francis had talked him into bed with sly words of 'making "Luddy" jealous', he'd heard from Lovino, who took him up on his drinks offer (it took him a while to work out that "Luddy", "Damn Potato Bastard" and Gilbert's brother were the same thing). The younger Italian's face held a mixture of apology, embarrassment and sheer terror when Arthur walked in on them and started yelling.

Although he wasn't as embarrassed as Ludwig (Gilbert's brother! Gilbert bought Arthur a beer for giving him the opportunity to be the one telling off Ludwig for a change. Arthur punched him in the face.), who looked like he wanted to die of shame, and there were two heated glares aimed at Francis on that particular discovery: another one Francis hadn't told. He struggled to dislike the German even after the discovery. Apparently he and Feliciano were finally together, after dancing around each other for ages; hopefully they would stop sleeping with his boyfriend now.

The list went on: Bella, her pot-smoking arse of a brother with spikey hair whose name escaped him (that caused some arguments, he'd heard, although by this point he was beyond caring about them), Yao (who was a man as it turned out), Elizaveta (Arthur was more than a little impressed at that one – Gilbert had been trying and failing to get into her pants for years, and had got seriously injured in the process. Fuck knows how Francis got past her stuck-up aristocrat guard-dog boyfriend, Roderich, or her ever-present frying pan. Well, apparently stuck-up and ever-present; he could only go on Gilbert's version of events and frankly they were always going to be a little biased.)

There were four times Arthur packed his bags and marched to the door: Matthew, Alfred, Alasdair and Dylan. Arthur still couldn't believe he thought it was even vaguely ok in a relationship to sleep with your boyfriend's cousin, estranged adoptive brother, elder brother who was nothing but abusive to him and who Francis knew perfectly well he hated, and his own, non-identical, Welsh twin. The last one stung particularly because Francis tried to claim that he thought it was Arthur, despite the fact that Dylan had brown hair and a welsh accent. He told himself each time that this was it, now I take my stand, now I show him exactly how it feels.

But every time Francis had caught him, taken him into a loving embrace, drawn him back with sweet nothings and empty promises, and Arthur fell hard back into the pit of roses complete with thorns that was love with Francis – so beautiful, so painful. In darker moments, Arthur called himself a masochist. In darker moments, Arthur dared to think that their relationship was just the same as Francis's sweet promises – empty.

Unable to leave Francis, Arthur settles for crying his feelings out and drowning them in rum every Thursday with Gilbert.

**Hey, first fanfiction. I'd really appreciate some tips on characterising Gilbert, because I find it quite hard to do. Aim to have it all uploaded by the end of the week, as am off on holiday then. **

**USUK shippers, this probably isn't for you – Alfred gets little to no mention in this, purely because Gilbert and Matthias are similar to him and I didn't want to have three versions of basically the same character in one story (yes, there are subtle differences but the speech pattern is basically the same).**

**FrUK people, I am one of you, however I find PrUK as adorable and in some ways as canon (historically, not in the Hetalia sense, before anyone freaks out), and the cheating relationship seemed to suit the pairing more than other UK pairings. And what with Gilbert and Francis being practically best friends there's some nice drama to be had.**

**Thank you for reading,**

**ASAS xxx**


	3. The Fail Brothers

_The Fail Brothers_

Arthur = 22, 16, 19

Gilbert = 23, 17, 20

It's another Thursday, and Arthur and Gilbert, as per usual, are sat in some crap bar drowning their and each other's sorrows. It's Gilbert's turn to moan, and he is moaning about his brother, who apparently locked him in his basement bedroom of the house they (supposedly) split the rent of, for drinking all of Ludwig's expensive beer and then walking in on him and Feliciano. Apparently he was in there for hours, but Arthur knows Gil has a spectacularly low boredom threshold so it was probably more like twenty minutes. He sympathetically rubs Gilbert's back, but finds it hard to feel sympathy for anyone other than Ludwig. And Feliciano. Arthur probably would have had a similar reaction had Alfred (he can't help but grimace at the thought of his long-lost brother) walked in on him and Francis. When Alfred was still around.

Gilbert finishes his rant with "That dummkopf has no respect for his elders!" To which Arthur smirked and replied, "He might respect you a little more if you ever paid the rent and didn't come home sloshed every Thursday and Saturday." Gilbert looks outraged, not helped by his slightly tipsy state (he is on his third strong beer, and the alcohol is starting to take effect), and yells "And whose fault is that?" Arthur just says "Certainly not mine: you're not my responsibility, and it's not my fault if you can't handle your liquor." Gilbert grins maniacally, "Says you!" Arthur smiles knowingly and says, "I never said I could, just that you couldn't." His smile cracks a little, and then they both burst out laughing at memories of drunken antics past. Arthur calms down, and then slams his hands on the bar decisively. "Right, that's it. Drinking contest, now!"

"You're on! Eyebrows, you're going down!"

"I can match you, shot for shot!" He catches the landlord's attention – not that they haven't had it, and not in a good way, since they arrived. "Bartender, six shots of whisky!" Arthur leers dangerously. "Three each. Might as well start easy."

They have been doing this for years, since they were teenagers, drinking beer or rum with fake then real IDs, debating loudly about nothing ("Beer is Awesome!" "Rum is better, git!" "In your dreams, eyebrows!" "Ha! You wish it was, zombie-face!" "Your mum wishes it was, eyebrows!" "Wha- that doesn't even make sense, moron! And my mum's dead." "Oh. Yeah. Sorry, man." "Shut up, Gil."), getting smashed and laughing 'til their sides split. On Saturdays, they went out with Matthias Køhler, or eyeliner as he's been known since Arthur's drunken revelation "Mate! I j-jus' realise'! Køhler! 'S spelt like kohl! Eyeliner! *hic* Your name'zz eyeliner! Ha-ic*! Al-riiiight,*hic* eeeye-ly-ner?" To which Matthias replied "Yee-eah, you'd *hic* know 'bout eyeliner, wouldn't yee-ooo, lay-dee boy! With yer skinny jeans and yer *hic* silver f-fucking DMs." cackling gleefully. "Oi, sh'tit, wanka, I'm a punk *hic* 'n' you know it." Conversations often end up like this after a few drinks. Somehow, though, "eyeliner" stuck, although Matthias retaliated with "caterpillar face" as an alternative to the usual "eyebrows" and earned himself a punch to the side of the head for his efforts.

Thursdays are just for them, a little break from the world, and the highlight of both their weeks (which says something about the state of their lives and relationships.) Recently though, it's mostly been Arthur crying about Francis and Gilbert trying to fathom why Arthur even stays with him. Trying to fathom why he himself ever liked the guy.

For years before Arthur and Francis got together, and Gilbert saw through Arthur's eyes a side of Francis he'd glimpsed but failed to guess at the full extent of, Francis and Gilbert were best friends, along with Arthur's eventual lifelong enemy Antonio. They named themselves the Bad Touch trio when the song came out, it suiting their general ethos (although what Gilbert thinks of when he hears those words is Arthur remarking caustically that "The song is almost as moronic as the trio itself." At the time Gilbert was indignant and punched Arthur in the arm, but retrospectively he can't help but agree.) The three of them were the terrors of the neighbourhood in childhood and a team of ruthlessly efficient sex-addicts in late-teen and early adulthood. Gilbert began to see people in terms of holes and not brains. He looked down on people, and his head inflated to ever more astronomical sizes with every easy one-night stand, not helped by the two similar big-heads cheering him on. Gilbert lost his intrinsic trust in human nature, and saw life as just looking for the next sex session.

When he approached Arthur expecting an easy shag, he didn't know that it would start a friendship that would sort of improve his outlook on life. Or as Arthur put it, "stop him becoming a self-worshipping, utterly insufferably gittish tosspot." What first attracted Gilbert to Arthur as a body was how Awesome his arse looked in his ripped skinny jeans (an opinion that Gilbert stands by to this day, friend or not), and the air of danger that seemed to radiate off him, with his piercings and visible tattoos, and stompy boots that went against his rather elegant figure.

As coincidences go, it was one of the more unusual ones. They both happened to be in the same club; Francis and Antonio had already picked a couple of girls up (or it might have been boys; they were notoriously omnisexual – Arthur once confided: "I think I saw Francis eying up a manikin in Topman the other day.")

Arthur was leaning over the bar engaged in a heated conversation with the bartender about the lack of rum available (Gilbert thought he caught the words, "You've got fucking Kahlua or whatever but no bloody rum, where the fuck do you think we are, Ibiza?" and decided he liked this punk. The feisty ones were always better in bed anyway.) and Gilbert couldn't help but notice the smooth, but not entirely flat, curve of his jeans while bent over the bar. He wandered up behind him – slightly to the right to avoid punches that may be thrown – and said to him, "I've got a hotel minibar with rum in it, if you're interested. Forget this _scheiβehaus, _come have some fun with me." He smiles his 'get-laid-or-get-punched' smirk – a gamble, he knows, but it's more fun that way.

Arthur turned and eyed him disapprovingly, and Gilbert practically flinched at his eyebrows. However he noted that his eyes were unusually green and bright, even when drunk. _Not bad at all, and if I can't take the eyebrows I can take him from behind. Awesome._

However, it turned out that wasn't going to be an issue.

What first attracted Gilbert to Arthur as a friend was that when Gilbert tried to pull him, even as a piss-drunk anarchist punk Arthur laughed in his face and called him "snowhead wanker". To which Gilbert replied, more than a little pissed off that his quarry wasn't giving in so easily, (and slightly shocked that he hadn't been affected by his smirk or 'charms') "Hey, I'm a fucking albino, eyebrows, and a sexy and Awesome one at that! Not cool!" He basically gave up trying to pull him and started full on arguing.

Arthur just laughed harder. "You're an arrogant bastard, aren't you? You think I haven't heard eyebrows before, kraut zombie?" Gilbert was worried now – this would be the second time in as many months Toni and Fran had done better than him in terms of pulling, and he didn't think even his gargantuan ego could take the months of ribbing that were sure to follow. He retorted, "I'm not a kraut zombie, I'm an Awesome Prussian Albino! And you're fucking annoying, limey bastard."

"Why thank you." Arthur bowed deeply from the waist on his seat and burst out laughing as only a drunk can. He proceeded to calm down and stuck out a hand. "Arthur."

Gilbert took it warily. "The Awesome Gilbert, but call me Gil or I'll rip your balls off. I think I'll call you Artie. Arthur sounds like an old man."

Arthur smirked a deadly smirk. "Call me Artie, and I'll call you Bertie, zombie git." Ignoring Gilbert's look of sheer horror, he continued "You seem pretty cool, and you've bloody well got balls talking to a drunk potentially violent stranger like that. Let me buy you a drink."

Gilbert grinned. "Maybe you're more Awesome than you first appear, eyebrows."

And so, a lifelong bond was formed, one that would keep Gilbert's feet on the ground and his head from grounding aircraft (although it wouldn't do his liver much good.)

Arthur was in his magic club (with Arthur it's best to just not ask, unless you're in the mood for multiple shoulder bruises and an insult-deflated ego) with Demetri the Creepy Romanian and NorgeWegian as Arthur had titled his fellow members when he met Matthias. Norge's self-proclaimed brother, he had insisted on coming to the meeting to protect Norge from "Stalkers and mad axe-wielding psychopaths." (Arthur would later have to restrain himself from remarking on the irony of this remark considering Matthias possessed the largest/only collection of extremely sharp Viking axes Arthur had seen in anyone's house, ever. He banned Matthias from teasing him about his obsession with the occult when he found out about Matthias's obsession with the Vikings.)

He announced himself as "The Awesome King Matthias of Scandinavia, more awesome than you, esquire." Arthur, more than used to this sort of thing, countered with, "Says who?"

Matthias grinned manically. "Me."

Arthur wore a look of stoic resignation combined with ironic sincerity, which was well used. He responded dryly, "Of course." Norge was clearly bored with the whole exchange, because he interjected with "Brother, this is Arthur Kirkland. Arthur, this is my idiot brother, Matthias Køhler. He's a complete idiot." He pause for a second before adding, "I think you two will get along." Arthur raised an eyebrow at the heavily shrouded insult, but declined to comment. After Norge walked off, Matthias confided "Little brother doesn't appreciate my awesomeness. It's sad really." Arthur had the strongest sense of déjà vu.

Matthias's talk of Awesomeness and ungrateful younger brothers both inspired empathy in Arthur and reminded him of an arrogant albino. And his spiky hair reminded him of a hedgehog. So 'eyebrows', or 'squirrel-tail face' when people were feeling particularly inventive, introduced 'hedgehog head' to '(kraut) zombie bastard/twat/git/moron/etc.' or occasionally 'goat face'. ("They're white and they've got weird eyes, fits you to a T" was the explanation for this.)

Arthur grins as he thinks of Matthias and Gilbert's first meeting. In his memories, Matthias and Arthur walk into the drinking duo's normal bar. Matthias doesn't so much as blink at Gilbert's unusual appearance (he is the only one in the pub: he sits at the bar, boredly nursing a beer), but strides over and slaps him on the back, hard. Gilbert doesn't flinch. "I'm Matthias Køhler, and I'm Awesome." Arthur rolls his eyes at the display of machismo. He is about to go over and make more normal introductions, but remembers it's Gilbert when the seated man stands up and slaps the other on the back what looks like harder. Matthias also doesn't flinch. "I'm Gilbert Beillschmidt, and I'm more Awesome, _kesesese_." Arthur face-palms and Matthias frowns.

"You're not. You look like a vampire zombie and you've got a weird laugh." Gilbert smirks.

"Your head looks like a hedgehog, _kesesese. _And my laugh is Awesome." Matthias takes his turn to smirk. Arthur is now beyond amazed, and has settled for watching on with amused detatchment.

"Zombie bastard."

"Hedgehog bastard." They engage in a ten-second stare off. Gilbert looks away first, saying to Arthur over Matthias' shoulder, "Hey, this one's got balls!" before grinning at Matthias and saying "You're alright, hedgehog. Although not as Awesome as the Awesome me, obviously." Matthias grins back, ignoring the last part, and replies, "You're not so bad yourself, zombie, though you could never hope to be as Awesome as me."

Gilbert looks more than ready to respond, but Arthur interrupts, trying to prevent what he predicts could be a very repetitive argument, "Have you written the marriage vows? Oh, no, I forgot, you're both already wedded to your own egos." He threw his hands up in the air at the last sentence. The two new friends shared a look and simultaneously said "Ooh, burn!" Before simultaneously bursting out laughing at Arthur's amazed expression.

They agree to go out drinking together every Saturday. Gilbert insists that the drinking trio needs an Awesome name, and their sibling issues (Arthur = estranged, Gilbert and Matthias = ungrateful, apparently) meant the Fail Brothers Trio was born.


	4. A Preliminary Introduction to Heartbreak

_A Preliminary Introduction to Heartbreak, Part One: When Francis met Arthur_

Arthur = 20

Gilbert, Francis, Antonio = 21

Unfortunately, an entirely different type of bond to the one the Fail Brothers had was formed between Francis and Arthur, the latter proving decidedly less immune to Francis's charms than he was to Gilbert's. And it was this that started the chain of separate events which would ultimately lead to Gilbert estranging the Bad Touch Trio. Gilbert and Arthur had been friends, best friends in fact, for about three years when Gilbert decided to introduce Arthur to his other best friends.

Gilbert decided it would be best to meet in some sort of gastro-pub, as it fit both parties. Arthur and Gil could get decent beer and a packet of crisps, Toni and Fran could get something edible and some Chablis. The place was called _That Old Place _and was either a misnomer or an attempt to be ironic. It was a year old, give or take, and about as homely as a dungeon. The fittings were in stainless steel and glass, even the bar and the barstools, and the pods had clean black leather cushions. Colourful spirits in frosted glass bottles were backlit on yet more glass shelves. It was as modern as it was soulless. Gilbert instantly longed for the old dives that the FBT frequented, where you got lung cancer the minute you walked in because the bar staff couldn't be bothered to enforce the smoking ban and no-one else gave a shit, where if you opened the windows from the outside you'd think the place was on fire.

He can see from the fact that Arthur's lips are pressed in a thin, discontented line that he doesn't much approve either. Gilbert feels embarrassed – for some reason he desperately wants Arthur to approve: of his choice in friends, venues, just of him in general. _When did eyebrows' opinion get so important to me? _Gilbert can't help but wonder. Arthur sees the pair, noting their obvious foreign status (they are conversing in Spanish and French) and remarks, "Are you only friends with people from other countries?"

He thinks for a second. _I'm Awesomely Prussian, Luddy is German, Arthur is English, Matthias is Danish, Francis is French, Antonio is Spanish. Prissy aristocrat and Lizvet are only sort of friends, but they're Austrian and Hungarian. Feliciano and Lovino are Italian. Luddy and Arthur's friend Kiku is Japanese. Matt's "brother" is Norwegian. Huh._ He looks at Arthur and says, "In answer to your previous question, yep." Arthur gives him a strange look, and Gilbert himself thinks it's a little his train of thought is interrupted by the look on Francis's face.

When Arthur walks in the room Francis grins a grin Gilbert hasn't seen since the last time they went out pulling, (last week, but still), and he knows Arthur is in trouble. He also knows the look isn't aimed at him – he would have noticed Francis staring at him like that before, and promptly punched it off his unusually attractive face. When Arthur sticks out his hand in a similar manner to when he and Gilbert met what seemed like forever ago, instead of shaking it Francis decides it would be a good idea to take it and kiss his knuckles softly, greeting Arthur with "_Enchanté._ _Je m'appelle __Francis__, mon cher. Comment vous-appellez vous?_" Arthur is slack-jawed with shock, and at first Gilbert has the urge to laugh in Francis's face, maybe quipping 'Good luck with this one, his pants have higher security than Alcatraz', all though why he feels so triumphant is a mystery to him. But then he notices Arthur is blushing. Arthur never blushes – goes red faced in anger, certainly, but blush? Never. _Although it does look very cute- _he interrupts this thought mid-sentence and locks it away for a rainy day when he can be bothered to be honest to himself.

Gilbert is distracted from his internal monologue by Arthur, having snatched his hand back as if burnt, replying "Y-you, you slimy g-git. I, I don't bloody speak Fr-frog. But my name is Arthur, if that's what you asked. Frog." Francis's whole face lights up, and Gilbert's heart drops into his boots. Arthur was stuttering? _Cute! No, shut up, brain. Squealing at cute things is girly and unawesome. And Arthur- Artie- __**Eyebrows **__isn't cute!_ But Gilbert still wonders why he never had that effect on Arthur. Francis's next sentence astounds him even more. "Aiyee! _Il est si mignon, ne-c'est pas?!" _He asked to no-one in particular._ "Tu es très mignon, mon petit lapin doux!_" _'My sweet little rabbit'? _Gilbert thought. _What the actual fuck?_ Francis had never been this nice to anyone he flirted with, mostly relying on good looks and a few well-placed but meaningless compliments, and he never gave people nicknames. Gilbert was deeply uncomfortable with the effect Arthur had on Francis and vice-versa. At the time he told himself it was because he knew Francis was a player and he didn't want Arthur to get hurt, being his best friend. He wanted both of them to be happy, and he knew that was unlikely to happen considering Francis's attitude to monogamy ('Monogamy, _mon ami_, is for bores and old people'.) "I don't speak bloody French, so stop it." Gilbert notes with some satisfaction that Arthur looks annoyed now, although he's still blushing, and by the looks of things pouting. Which he never does. Ever. Gilbert's brain is still screaming _CUTE _at him at the top of its voice (?), but even it is distracted when Francis practically pulls Arthur on to his lap as he goes to sit down. He can't help but glare, and Francis gives him an odd look.

It is at this point Toni decides to make himself known. "Hola, mi amigo. My name is Antonio, or Toni for short." The words and cheeriness seem strained, and Gilbert knows why. It is exactly the reason he has been spending less and less time with the Bad Touch-ers and more and more with the Fail Brothers. For about three months, Antonio and Francis have been more interested in sucking each other's faces than going out with Gilbert and finding drunkards and sluts to fuck (although it's seeming less and less of an attractive option even to Gil these days. He finds it corrosive to the soul. He'd rather be in a bar with Arthur somewhere, having intelligent conversation and the occasional brawl. He worries he's turning into an old man at twenty-one, sometimes. Or a sap. Or both.) Gilbert is thoroughly confused about it all, as Antonio has been going out with a grumpy, abusive Italian who has a tendency to give people vaguely insulting nicknames (what was his again? Albino potato bastard, or something similar. Gilbert makes a mental note to introduce him to Arthur. He figures they'd get on) for some months now, and is near obsessed with him, even with the current affair with Francis. When he hasn't got his tongue down Francis's throat, 'Lovino' this and 'Lovi' that is all Gilbert ever hears about. The BTT meetings are becoming incredibly boring for Gilbert.

He supposes this flirting with Arthur is a way of getting back at Toni for the Lovino thing. If it is, it's working, because Antonio looks nothing short of hurt beneath his smile. "Pleasure to meet you, Toni." Arthur remains somewhat oblivious to the tense atmosphere, however is effective at removing it, although unwittingly, by turning to Francis and demanding "Tell me what that French meant, frog. For all I know, you could be insulting me." Gilbert seems to notice he hasn't been contributing much to the conversation, so snorts, "_Kesesesese! _I Awesomely speak French, and you don't want to know, eyebrows."

"Why would I not want to know?" Arthur's face is dangerous, and Francis's is the picture of terror. Arthur fingers Francis's red wine with interest, running his finger around the edge. "Frog, if you insulted me, this red wine is going on your obviously expensive shirt. I believe red wine stains are rather difficult to get out. Am I right, frog?" Francis seems to have accepted the nickname as form of endearment perhaps, as he doesn't protest. Indeed, he no longer looks scared and is wering his signature smirk. "So nice to find someone who knows quality when he sees it, _ma chèrie_. And if you tip red wine on my shirt, I will upend my filet mignon with red wine _jus_ on your head. _Tu comprends?_" Arthur leers right back. _He really likes this guy. _Gilbert looks on with something akin to horror. Toni just looks bored and hurt, silently eating the food Francis insisted on choosing for him. Arthur replies, "I don't think you've got the balls to get chucked out of a nice place like this, charming posh frog like you."

"Try me, _chèrie_. And you admit I'm charming, _ohonhonhon._" Francis looks like the cat that got the cream. Apparently Arthur is the cream.

"Tell. Me. What. You. Said." Arthur is back to blushing a little at the perverted laugh, but perseveres.

Gil has been fidgeting around for a bit now, and decides to intervene before things get too intense. "Oh for god's sake, Fran!" He waits for Francis to elaborate for all of a second before continuing, "He said 'He is so cute, is he not?', and to you he said 'You are very cute, my sweet little rabbit.'" Gilbert is giving Francis a questioning look, daring him to explain. Arthur has gone very red. Anger red. _Ah, good. Wait, why is that good?_ Arthur bursts out, "What the FUCK?!" Francis still looks cool and collected, calmly ignoring the odd looks they are getting from the other patrons and the evils they are getting from the waiter. He gives Arthur his most charming smile. "It is true, is it not? For a punk, you are very cute." Arthur is wearing his trademark ripped jeans, matt red DMs (although he sometimes wears silver) and anarchist-symbol vest top, along with multiple piercings and a visible skull-and-crossbones tattoo entwined with roses beneath his collarbone. "And I think the nick name rather suits you, _ne-c'est pas_?" Arthur looks offended, and Gilbert is jumping for joy. Toni's grin is a lot more real. Gilbert is counting down to the explosion. _Three, two, one… _Nothing. Arthur practically murmurs "You slimy frog." Arthur looks genuinely hurt, punches him in the arm and walks off.

Toni still looks triumphant, but he doesn't know Arthur. Gil's brain is going a mile a minute. _If he hated the guy like it appears, he would have ranted at him, tipped the wine on his head and __then__ walked off. He only hits people he likes. The fact that he feels comfortable enough around him to punch him already is remarkable in itself. Come to think of it, if he didn't like Francis, he would have been snappy and bitingly sarcastic, or subtly offensive, not engaged him. He likes Francis. He __really__ likes Francis. _For some reason, he feels like he's been kicked in the ribs.

* * *

_A Preliminary Introduction to Heartbreak, Part Two: You can't ask for a gift back_

While Gilbert has been musing, he has unknowingly been the subject of the most evil glare seen from Francis since Gil spilt Heineken on his vintage Chanel loafers. Gil almost flinches as he turns and sees it focused on him. Toni is 'comforting' him on the failure of the his flirtation with Arthur, sitting a little closer than is really necessary and whispering the words into his ear in a way that is less (or more) than platonic. Gil thinks he catches the words "Stupid English pig" and "Clearly frigid." He almost growls, feels the need to leap in and defend Arthur. Doesn't. He knows Francis will question his intentions for cutting short their conversation if he does.

He sighs and decides to do the best thing for his friendship, if not for himself. Or Arthur, as it would turn out. Unknowingly tying the bow on his gift-wrapped best friend, he sits down opposite Francis and steeples his fingers. "He really likes you. I mean _really_ likes you." Francis looks at him like he's just said the moon is made of cheese and tiddlywinks is the battleground of the future in the same sentence. He speaks slowly, as if to a particularly thick child. "_Mon ami_, he punched me in the arm and stormed off. That hardly counts as a result in terms of hitting it off." Gilbert almost snorts. "How long have you known Arthur?"

Francis does glances at the clock. "Ten minutes."

"How long have I known Arthur?"

"Four years. But still, he obviously hates me! He calls me frog!" Francis looks indignant by this point.

"Yeah, and he calls me kraut zombie bastard or goat face, and I'm his best friend! You really don't know the ways of the English, do you?" Francis looks baffled by this point, and the glares Gilbert's getting off Toni could cook an egg. But he continues regardless, or because he doesn't think he can take another evening of the two of them being lovey dovey and him sitting there like a sour gooseberry, as Arthur would say. "They're complicated creatures. If they insult you, they like you. If he didn't like you he would have acted sniffy and aloof, and would have subtly insulted you. The fact that he's already given you a vaguely offensive nickname is a good sign. You know Lovino?" Francis nods. "It's the same thing." Francis suddenly looks a lot more enlightened, although still not quite convinced. Toni blushes and looks guilty at the mention of his forgotten boyfriend. Shuffles away from Francis a little.

Gilbert sighs, reverting to his native language in his exasperation. "_Mein gott, _Franny. Look, _dummkopf,_ how hard did he punch you?"

"It doesn't hurt anymore." Gilbert's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. _Jesus._

"He really likes you." This is more to himself: a murmur. Seeing the other's confused face, he rolls up his shirt. A massive purple bruise roughly the shape of a fist is just starting to turn browny-yellow. "He gave me this last week. He obviously doesn't even want to hurt you that much, just express frustration. He doesn't mind hurting best friends, cos he knows he'll be forgiven. He likes you – he doesn't want you to take offense."

"But why did he run away?" One last thing to be cleared up. Then he can pretty much kiss Arthur goodbye – _wait, even if __Francis__ asks him out, we'll still be friends. So why does this bother me so much? Gott, it's not like we're dating, or anything._ He ignores the fact that this last thought pains him, a little. "Arthur… has one hell of an inferiority complex. He's never really been in a stable relationship. My best guess is… from his point of view… he probably can't believe that someone 'like you' would want someone 'like him'. He probably sees you as just playing with him, or looking for a quick fuck." There is the unspoken understanding that Francis wants more than a fling with Arthur – he never pursues the rare people who reject him, just laughs it off and moves on to the next one.

Francis seems to take a minute to take in the information, a slow smile spreading across his face. "So… he acted like that because he fancied me?" Gilbert wants to punch him. "So CUTE!" The squeal hurts his ears. "And he's single?"

He grits his teeth, forcing the words out. "Yep."

Francis's grin is gleeful. "You have his number, _non_?"

His fists clench. "Yep." He chucks Francis his unlocked phone.

"_Merci, mon ami._" Francis murmurs this, too busy flicking through Gilbert's contacts, frowning when he realises Arthur isn't under A, but smirking when he finds him under E. Eyebrows. "Suits him, _non_?" Gilbert is drawn back from his own anger haze _Why am I angry? _by his friend's voice. However Toni is the first to agree, jumping on this like a lifeline. "Yeah, they look like caterpillars, hey, Gil?" Gilbert's eyes narrow. _That's my nickname for Artie! And Matt's! We insult him because we're his friends. _Antonio continues regardless of his friend's lack of response. "I think I will call him that from now on." He is unconsciously sneering. Gilbert's expression is neutral, but he is silently seething. _Don't you fucking dare! It's only OK when I call him it!_ Francis intervenes then. "Aww, don't do that Toni, it's mean! Besides, I think they are cute!" Toni's face looks fleetingly shocked and hurt, and Gil mentally sends out a thank you. It turns out to be the last time he thanks Francis, mentally or otherwise. And he takes it back instantly when Francis turns to him and asks,

"Gil, does he have a tongue piercing?" His tone is innocent, but Gil knows better.

"Yes…" Francis puts on a frankly terrifying look.

"_Ohonhonhonhon…_"

Later, when Francis leaves, he is confronted by Toni. His mask has dropped, and he looks nothing short of furious. "Why did you do that?"

Gilbert smirks. Recently he has rather gone off Antonio as a person. "I was helping out a friend with a crush. I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition." He sends a challenging sneer Antonio's way, but internally is remembering when Arthur showed him that episode of Monty Python, and when they tried to recreate the 'poking with the soft cushions' torture on Matthias. (It really isn't that good of a method of torture, _even _if you put all the stuffing in one corner, and tends to lead to pillow fights.) Using that expression around Antonio is like a red rag to a bull. He resolves to use it whenever possible.

"Gilbert, mi amigo, you know how I feel about Francis." Antonio's tone is dangerous, and Gilbert wants to laugh in his cheating face. He knows the 'mi amigo' is about as friendly as a bear with a hangover. "Yeah, and I know how you feel about 'Lovi'." Antonio pales a little at the mention of his long-term boyfriend. Gilbert continues, "I wonder what he did in a past life to deserve a boyfriend like you."

Antonio looks ready to fly at him, and Gilbert loves it, in a sort of sadistic way. He finishes with a flourish, "Oh, and I know you love him. In truth the only reason I did it is because BTT meetings are boring these days. You're either talking about Lovino or sucking Francis' face, and I can't really handle both." He knows he's taking out his anger at Francis and himself on Antonio, but really his two fellow members of the BTT have committed the same crime. They've both taken one of his best friends away.

Gilbert turns and leaves the bar before Antonio can get a punch in. He doesn't fancy explaining to Ludwig where the bruise came from.


	5. A Young Man's Bedroom is his Castle

_A Young Man's Bedroom is his Castle, Part One: Texting_

François = 21

Arthur = 20

The night after the whole gastropub debacle, François texts Arthur with an air of trepidation. He has never experienced so much as the possibility of rejection before, and it frankly terrifies him. But it excites him as well, like the first time sky-diving having only ever been in a wind tunnel. _If you want something before you get it, it makes it special, I suppose._

When Arthur hears his phone buzz from his desk, he groans and rolls over, unenthusiastically leaving his bed and trudging over to the irritant. He is still feeling down and embarrassed about how he acted on meeting Gilbert's so-called "Bad Touch Trio." He really isn't in the mood for having his sleep interrupted, and if it's Gil he will turn his phone off: he is annoyed at him for some reason, despite knowing it's not really his fault. However his interest is piqued when his phone reads '1 new message. Number unknown.'

He opens the message with a similar sense of trepidation to François on sending the text. He blinks at the rather noteworthy length. He scans it, and then reads it again, a warm blush and goofy smile slowly spreading across his face.

'_Mon Cher _Arthur,

François here. I am so sorry if you took offense at my words at the pub this afternoon, although thank you for not tipping wine on me! It was much appreciated ;). I meant what I said though: you really are very cute, _mon lapin_, especially for a punk (that's not offensive is it? If so, sorry!). And I'm not just looking for a "quick shag", as I believe you Brits charmingly term a one night stand. I wish to be friends, or to be honest, more, if you are open to the suggestion.

Sorry, I have been rather forward, I know. Forgive me, but I just knew the minute I saw you walk in with Gil we were meant to be. Cliché, _non_? But then I AM a sappy romantic. And you can't stop me sapping it up, _ma chèrie rosbif_! =D

The point of this rather rambling text is this. Would you like to go out some time? If so, let me know when is good for you.

With love ;),

François xxxx 3'

Arthur is grinning like an idiot by the end, although he rolls his eyes at the '_rosbif_' sentence in general. He can't believe someone like François would claim to love someone like him. (Arthur has rather low self-esteem, and his friends don't help much. He loves them to bits, but they were unfeasibly handsome, and he always feels self-conscious, with his large eyebrows and skinny frame. He knows Matthias is handsome no matter how much Arthur teases him about his hair, and Gilbert is almost stunning, his pale skin and red eyes just adding to his charm. Arthur can't help but feel out of place.) Unknowing of Gilbert's assistance in the matter, he is pleased that François seems to have guessed his fears in terms of one night stands. _Maybe the frog, as well as being handsome and rather charming_ (although he would never admit this in real life) _is actually a decent person as well._

Still blushing, he hastily texts a reply. But before he sends it, a thought occurs to him. _Wait - don't want to play totally into his hands. That would look desperate. I'll make him wait ten minutes, then send it._ While he waits, he adds François's number to his contacts (not hesitating to call him 'Frog') and reads for a bit. When he thinks he's kept the frog waiting for a sufficient amount of time (around fifteen minutes, in the end – he gets rather more into his book than originally intended) he rereads the text and then sends it. It goes like this,

'Dear Frog,

Thank you for texting me so politely! It's nice to meet someone who actually texts properly without using moronic chatspeak.

Please, don't apologise for earlier. I'm sorry, I feel awful; I was so rude, and I really overreacted. I'm not angry in the slightest, I actually think the nickname (_lapin_, was it?) thing is kind of cute :$. If anything you should be angry at me.

No it's not offensive, I don't take offense _that _easily. And I am open to the suggestion, um, if you are.

Don't worry, I'm a soppy romantic too, under this cold, cynical exterior. ;)

Um, yeah, that would be lovely, if you want to. I mean, if you're not doing this in some misguided attempt to apologise, or something. Sorry, I just find it hard to believe you would be interested in me. :/

I don't really mind where we go, but Friday would probably be best, at around eight, if that's OK.

Arthur x'

(In truth, Arthur had procrastinated for ages about what to put at the end. Normally he wouldn't put kisses at the end of texts, but François had put four (four! And a heart!) and he felt it would be rude not to reciprocate. Besides, he didn't want to seem cold. In the end he decided one kiss and a smiley face was warm and friendly enough without seeming over-emotional (four!).

It wasn't until after he'd sent it that he realised he was really over thinking things.)

At the other end, François is panicking. Arthur's delay has the intended effect – he is going out of his mind. _What's taking him so long? No-one takes this long._ He practically pounces on his phone when it beeps.

François chuckles on reading it, although has to stop himself jumping up and down with triumph at the positive response. _Mon petit lapin really is too sweet to be real._ He really can't figure out why he is so happy that Arthur said yes. He decides it must be the doubt, the possibility of failure that was never there before. For a man who claimed to be 'Le Roi d'Amour' he really is oblivious sometimes.

He quickly texts back,

'I thought you might appreciate decent grammar – you seem the type.

I will come and pick you up. It will be a surprise!

Don't doubt yourself like that, _chèrie. _You are beautiful. 3 :D

Do you have a favourite type of cuisine?

F x 3'

He lies on his bed and awaits a response.

In his room Arthur blushes. Googles '_chèrie_'. Blushes some more.

Arthur knows he has to respond this time. François knows he is on his phone, it would be weird not to. He taps out a reply.

In a bedroom, a phone vibrates. *Ping!*

'What do you mean, I seem the type? I'm a bloody English graduate!

I'd say British but you're a frog so you'd never go for that. :

Probably Italian or Indian otherwise. Hope this helps.

A x'

François smiles at his phone and replies,

'You're so English! I bet you drink tea by the bucketful!

Your little stereotype of my people, as much as I'd like to deny it, is true. I find it _so _bland.

Also, you're making it easy for me! I was hoping you'd choose something interesting like Burmese, or Fijian! ;D

X 3'

François full on laughed at the reply he got to that one. He could practically hear Arthur's indignant tone.

'Oi, what's wrong with tea? :(

Also, I'm _so very sorry_ for disappointing you with my _boring _choice of meal. :

X'

They continue texting like this for some time until they feel like they'd known each other for years rather than minutes – the joy of technology. They know each other's occupation, favourite foods, drinks, films, TV shows, songs, plays, books (Arthur: Student of English and occasional children's author, scones, tea or rum, or both, _Monty Python and the Holy Grail _and _Life of Brian_ joint, Doctor Who (although François bet he could have guessed that), _Somebody Got Murdered _by The Clash ('They're so much better when they're not shouting ;).') _Much Ado About Nothing_, and _1984 _by George Orwell ('Bleak, but beautiful)_. _Francis: Assistant Manager at a small gallery in the East End, owned by a friend of his uncles, a steak 'so rare it's a miracle it doesn't bite me', red Bordeaux, _The Artist _most recently, _The Killing_, _La Vie en Rose_ by Edith Piaf ('What can I say? I am a French romantic!'), _Romeo and Juliet_, (Arthur congratulated him on an excellent choice), and _The Trial _by Franz Kafka.)

* * *

_A Young Man's Bedroom is his Castle, Part Two: Revelations_

Gilbert = 21/18 (memory/imagination)

Not far away, in a different bedroom, the man who the pair have actually both known for years went undisturbed, by text or other. He didn't mind; he was too busy stewing over his until now undisturbed emotions. He was incredibly disconcerted, in fact full on freaked out, by his reaction to François' flirting, and apparent desire for a relationship, with Arthur. His own _possessiveness_ of Arthur astounded him. When did he start feeling like that? Certainly he found Arthur a little attractive. That was the whole basis of their first meeting, in fact, but there were plenty of other good looking people François flirted with, and he didn't feel the need to punch François then. It wasn't like Arthur was in any way his, except as a friend. They'd fucked a couple of times, but they found the next morning that the actual event was erased from their mind due to their own intoxication, and the evening before was fuzzy at best. There was an unspoken agreement never to mention those times.

But then a thought occurred to him.

He, Matthias and Arthur used to do similar things to what the Bad Touch Trio did: go out on the town, drink dance, maybe get laid (the crucial difference was they didn't go out looking for one night stands – they went out to have fun, and if something happened, then, hey, all the better for it. Gilbert found he slightly preferred this to the pressure of 'must find someone to sleep with to avoid getting teased about it for the next six years'.) They stopped about six months prior to his current position. They mostly just went out drinking and mischief making after that, only going clubbing every couple of months or so, usually at Matthias's insistence.

At first Gilbert loved going out like that, it helped him unwind. He and Arthur and Matt would drink and dance, with each other jokingly, with others more seductively.

But as he and Arthur spent more and more Thursdays together, he became more and more uncomfortable going out on the town and to clubs with his Fail Brothers. He would only really feel relaxed dancing with them (or was it just Arthur?), sort of panicking when they left to go dance with other people. He would go too, of course, and quite often he would pick someone up. But his gaze always drifted to Arthur, and he decided he wasn't the only one who wasn't exactly enjoying it – in fact Arthur looked distinctly uncomfortable with all the attention he was getting (despite his insecurities Arthur had an air about him that meant he often left with more offers and numbers than either of the other two. Gilbert thought it was because he seemed a little vulnerable and entirely unaggressive, most of the time, so people felt comfortable and safe talking to him. Even Gilbert came over quite protective of him sometimes, much to Arthur's derision.) Gilbert was thoroughly miffed. _How dare they make him uncomfortable?_

After a couple of sessions where he got full on angry, and had to stop himself marching over and getting rid of the girl or guy (they were all overjoyed that they all swung both ways – it made things so much less awkward) that was flirting with Arthur, touching Arthur, kissing Arthur, _had to not go over and do that to him myself, no, shut up brain_, he asked that they made these things no more than every three months, ostensibly because they made him tired for work on Sunday mornings (he was apprenticed to a mechanic and had decidedly weird working hours, hence drinking on Thursdays rather than Fridays), but really for quite a different reason. Arthur looked downright relieved and quickly agreed (Gilbert's own relief at that was inexpressible). Matthias looked disappointed, but said he didn't mind so long as they still did it sometimes. Gilbert was confused about why he felt so calmed by it, particularly by Arthur not being flirted with. He assumed it was a sort of big-brother protectiveness.

He was beginning to think the feeling he had for Arthur were more than big brotherly. And it scared him.

_How can I 'like' Arthur? It's Arthur! Eyebrows!_

He then ticked himself off for focusing on the eyebrows – he stopped people doing it on the basis that there was more to Arthur than the prominent growths on both sides of his forehead. (Gilbert always hated them anyway, though. They distracted people from his eyes, the really noteworthy feature on Arthur's face, in Gilbert's opinion.) He thinks of Arthur's good qualities.

_But he makes me laugh, and I love spending time with him. He's witty and a good friend and he's utterly adorable when he laughs, or smiles. Or frowns, or pouts. He's just adorable._

_And his arse does look amazing in his jeans._

Gilbert's heart does backflips as he thinks,

_Am I in love with Arthur?_

He has to be sure. He remembers a test Luddy told him about when he was twelve and Gilbert was fourteen. You think of a person and if you can picture the two of you holding hands and kissing, then you fancy them and are in love with them. At the time Gilbert thought it was sweet, if stupid, and called his brother a _dummkopf _for listening to rubbish like that.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

He imagines the park near both their houses, with the sycamore trees lining the outside, and a path through the middle, clover dotting the green. It seems to be late autumn, for the leaves are either golden on the trees or on the ground. Arthur is wrapped up in a black duffel coat, trademark DMs and a red scarf, his cold pink nose poking over the top. Gilbert realises he is about to mess with a memory – the time Arthur insisted they do something other than get smashed and laugh on a Thursday. He dragged Gilbert to the park ('It always looks so beautiful in Autumn) with, of all things, a kite. It was almost sunset, and the park was just starting to frost over. They messed around with the kite for a good hour, and Gilbert thought that Arthur looked a lot younger, even than his tender eighteen years (Gilbert is a full year older, and holds it over Arthur whenever he can).He looked carefree, and happy. Happy in a way Gilbert rarely sees, even on Thursdays and Saturdays, when Gilbert knows (and is smug) that he is happiest.

But now, thinking about, he realises Arthur didn't just look young, or carefree. He looked beautiful. In the fading light, with his eyes twinkling, and laughing so differently to the hysterical drunken laughter they would normally share, he looked nothing short of stunning. And now Gilbert is getting so sappy he wants to die, so he moves on, locking that revelation away for a moment when he is more in control.

Later on in the day, when they were packing up the kite, Arthur told him flying a kite was one of his favourite things to do with his mum before she died. Gilbert didn't dig any deeper – he knew Arthur's childhood wasn't the easiest, only beginning to look up since his scholarship to Oxford, where his grandfather left him a flat, luckily.

And this is where the imagining deviates from fact. In the last of the dying light, instead of heading back to the pub, Dream Gilbert takes Arthur's hand (it feels warm, it makes Gilbert feel warm and a_ren't I just fucked, then?) _and they go and sit on one of the many benches along the edge of the path. Arthur turns to face him, and unwraps his scarf so it is just hanging on his neck. Both real Gilbert and Dream Gilbert's hearts start to beat faster. Arthur leans in and Dream Gilbert closes the distance. A slow dance of tongues begins – there is no-one else in the park, and they wouldn't care if there was. A battle for dominance ends in Dream Gilbert's favour, and he maps out his newly gained territory with his tongue. It feels amazing and insanely right.

Gilbert really likes this image. He is also crazy jealous of Dream Gilbert.

_Gott Verdammt, I really am in love with Arthur._ But Gilbert doesn't feel uneasy about it anymore, for some reason.

Unbidden, a new image creeps into Gilbert's mind.

They are kissing again, but this time in Gilbert's bedroom. It is a lot more urgent this time, more passionate. Their bodies contort until Dream Gilbert is straddling Arthur.

A time skip.

Arthur is still beneath him, but this time he is completely naked. There are purple marks dotting his neck, shoulders and chest, courtesy of Dream Gilbert. His lips are swollen from kissing, and there is a slight sheen of sweat at his hairline and on his upper lip. He looks positively debauched, and Gilbert has a distinct idea where this is going.

Another blank.

Arthur is writhing beneath him, his whole body glistening with sweat, calling Gilbert's name. Gilbert is acutely aware that Dream Gilbert is thrusting into Arthur's perfect arse.

Gilbert _really_ likes that image, and his jealousy increases tenfold.

He cuts off the image in his head before things get out of hand for real Gilbert. He looks down and goes and takes a cold shower. _Calm. Think of Ludwig yelling at you._

A while later, a thought occurs to him.

_I am in love with my best friend. And today I just basically gave him away to the biggest flirt anyone will ever meet who thinks monogamy is for bores and old people._

_That is practically the definition of unAwesome. _

For the first time in a long time, Gilbert lets a tear slip free.

* * *

**And so this marks the end of oblivious!Gilbert. Also, sorry for anyone who might've thought Gilbert at the beginning of The Fail Brothers (Chapter 2) was a bit unusually cynical, but I think you'd get like that if you did what my BTT did - i.e. an indefinite one-night-stand competition.**

**As I said in a previous A/N tips on characterising him are appreciated. As well as any others, in fact.**

**Or any reviews. I'm such a review whore. :/**

**ASAS xxx**


	6. First Times

**OK, so we've had cynical Prussia, oblivious Prussia, and now at the end of this we have a little angsty Prussia. Just saying. Who knows, by the end of this story we might have had a paragraph of normal Prussia.**

* * *

_First Times_

Arthur: 20, 21, 22-and-a-half, 23

François: 21, 22, 23, 24

Gilbert: 21, 22, 23, 24

Matthias: 22

Antonio: 21, 22, 23, 24

Matthew: 19

* * *

Their first date was a complete success. The conversation flowed freely, as did the wine. François chose a perfect restaurant; the food, the staff, the setting and the ambience were just so. They talked about anything and everything, from culture to personal lives. (There is only one distinctly awkward silence when François asks about Arthur's family. He coughs, and says as quickly as possible "My mother is dead and I don't really talk to anyone else in my family, for various reasons. Could we talk about something else, please?" in a small voice.) François was nothing but a gentleman, sharing no more than idle touches over the table (cheek, arm, fingers when Arthur asked for the salt) and occasionally holding hands under the table. He occasionally complimented Arthur, saying he looks stunning in the candlelight, or similar, and Arthur blushes even when he objects to some of them. (The exchanges are typified by this sort of thing: After the family discussion, François remarks offhandedly, "You are so cute, _mon lapin doux._" Arthur looks aghast, furious and flattered at the same time. "I'm not bloody cute!"

"_Ma chèrie, _you are just proving my point." He smiled dotingly, and Arthur's flush spread to the tips of his ears.

"Shut up. And I'm not your darling, frog." There was no bite to the statement, and a slight smile graced Arthur's lips. Francis's smile bent into a smirk.

"But you are my sweet rabbit, then?"

"Gah!")

François sensed, rightly, that Arthur wasn't one for public displays of affection.

To the idle observer, many of their conversations would seem to be arguments; in fact, had you not known them, you might think they did not get on, or at very least the affection was one-sided. Indeed, François was a little unnerved by how combative Arthur seemed to be. However, encouraged by Arthur's lack of objection to his intermittent touches, and armed by Gil's "The more he insults you the more he likes you" tip, François realised Arthur was a lot less cold, and a lot more open to affection, than he appeared superficially.

Both of them made quite the effort for the date. François wore his best suit – Chanel – it was charcoal, clean cut, just slightly on the tight side and it fit him like a glove. He wore a wine red silk shirt and no tie. He artfully hung a black handkerchief out of his top suit pocket (it would be the cause of much ridicule later when Arthur asked, "Why is your hanky hanging out of your pocket?" which lead to "I suppose you keep your pants artfully hanging out of your trousers as well, then?" which lead to a remark from François about what else could "artfully" hang out of your trousers. "Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say n'more, eh?" Arthur would remark sarcastically to this, though in good humour.) He also saved up a fair amount of his money, preparing to pay for the not-exactly cheap restaurant.

When he saw Arthur waiting outside the restaurant, he chuckled at Arthur's idea of effort, and at his outfit in general. He was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of 'dressing up', even for a fairly smart restaurant. He was wearing a black dress shirt with three buttons undone, silver Celtic knot necklace showing, and a grey waistcoat under a darker grey trench coat. However he also about six piercings in his left ear and one in the other, a studded leather cuff, jet black skinny jeans and staple silver DMs. _At least his jeans aren't ripped. _François thought gratefully, and then,_ I don't know how he looks so sexy in something so ridiculous._

His laughter died in his throat when he walked up and Arthur presented him with a perfume, sorry, cologne that he'd been after for ages, and that probably cost almost as much as the meal would. He handed it to the slightly shell-shocked François, blushing and looking away, fiddling with his fringe. "I couldn't just let you pay, it wouldn't be gentlemanly of me. And you seem like the cologne type. I had a bit of money left saved from my part time job, anyway, and this wasn't too much out of that." François was shocked. _Now there's a side of him I've never seen. _He pointedly ignored the insult buried within 'You seem the type'. He kisses Arthur on the cheek, lingering for just a second. "Thank you, _mon petit lapin, _that was very sweet and thoughtful of you. Though I assure you, quite unnecessary. Your company is payment enough." He said with his most charming smile, whilst casually sliding his arm around Arthur's slim waist. Arthur looked away and blushed a little harder. "Now, shall we go in?"

At the end of the night François drove Arthur home, horrified that he intended to go home by bus (he never rode his motorbike under the slightest influence of alcohol. He may have been an anarchist but he wasn't a moron.) He insisted on walking Arthur to the door of his block of flats, and they shared a sweet kiss. François didn't ask to come in, and Arthur didn't offer. He isn't quite ready to take it where that would inevitably lead.

The first time Arthur told his Fail Brothers about his new boyfriend, Gilbert's hand clenched imperceptibly around his beer mug. Just because he knew it was coming didn't mean he had to accept it. Matthias meanwhile, had kidnapped Arthur's phone and was frantically searching through the contacts, looking for the offending number. Gilbert looked up in surprise and relaxed at the same time at Arthur's exclamation of "Calm down, Matt, we haven't even slept together yet!" (The Fail Brothers were the only people with whom Arthur spoke candidly about his love and sex life, mainly because they'd seen most of it on their nights out anyway.) Matthias dialled the number, and a strangely tense quiet fell when the ringing stopped and a barely audible "'Allo, mon petit lapin! Qu'est-ce que c'est la problemme?" rattled through the tinny speakers. Matthias raised an eyebrow at 'petit lapin', but continued,

"This is Matthias Køhler. Arthur's friend." A moment of silence at the other end.

"Why do you have Arthur's phone?" Matthias ignores the question.

"You're his boyfriend, correct?" Matthias' tone is dangerous, and François sounds understandably unnerved by the intensity of the question "…ouais."

"Listen up, Frenchie. Artie is Awesome. Got it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "If at any point it turns out you're an unawesome motherfucker who breaks his heart, me and probably Gil will have something to say about it. Or more accurately, a few punches to throw." Gil frowned at the probably. A vague, "But I would never hurt Arthur, I love him!" was cut off at the penultimate word by "I don't care for your promises, they're meaningless to me. I just want to make something very clear: you break his heart, I break your arm." Matthias hung up before François could respond. Arthur looks annoyed but thankful. "That wasn't really necessary, Matt. But thanks anyway. It's nice to know I've got someone behind me if it goes to shit. I'm sure it won't, but still. Thanks."

Gilbert instantly wished it was him that made the call.

The first time they had sex, it was a little less romantic than Arthur might've hoped, but it was generally excellent, and there was more than enough passion to make up for the lack of romance. But it was definitely having sex, not making love. Arthur thought about it later, and decided it took three times for it to become making love.

François invited Arthur around to his house to watch a film. They were laid up against each other, acutely aware of each other's presence. Around half an hour in they both realised they were paying more attention to each other than the film. It took another fifteen minutes for them to move into the bedroom. The TV stayed on all night.

The first time François cheated it was Gilbert who found out. When François and Arthur got together there were about three months where they were just three friends again, laughing and messing around in a bar, talking about lives, relationships, all the usual crap. Then, all of a sudden, Gilbert walked in a little late to find Antonio and François swapping spit like there was no tomorrow. Gilbert turned round and walked out. He wasn't going to tell Arthur, but he didn't want to spend time with the bastards anyway. He ignored the texts that came. They only sent two anyway before he was forgotten.

The first time Arthur found out was on the same day. In Gilbert's absence, the BTT meeting quickly turned into something of a date, which lead back to François's house. Arthur forgot his keys from the previous evening, and got in using the spare key behind the third brick to the left of the door. However his keys were quickly forgotten on hearing the incredibly suspicious noises coming from the upstairs bedroom. He felt his heart sink in his stomach. He raced upstairs, but paused in front of the door, his hand hovering over the handle. He almost walked away, wanted to pretend this wasn't happening. But he couldn't let François walk all over him like that. He grasped the handle, and opened the door.

As he suspected and feared, there were two bodies entangled in the throes of passion on the bed that he and François shared not two nights ago. As he feared the heads on the pillow were blonde and brunette, the latter with unforgettable olive eyes. Antonio.

He ignored the brunette and turned to the blonde, nothing but hurt in his eyes. François had a rabbit in the headlights look on, with just a hint of guilt. Arthur asked him, "Why?"

François blinks, and then answers "I'm drunk."

Arthur's face was blank. "No you're not. Or at least not drunk enough." _For it to be forgivable._ Were the unspoken words.

"He came on to me." François looks a little desperate.

He remained poker-faced "Try again."

The blonde crumpled. "You weren't around."

The man at the door-way almost smiled, and remarked "How nice of you to be honest. Third time lucky, eh?" The snarkiness was nearly an effective cover for the hurt, although holes still leaked pain. He turned to the other man – in more than one sense – with eyes aflame. "You. Get your clothes on and get out. If I have to look at you for much longer I expect no blame for what my fist will do to your face. If I ever see you again don't expect me to be so merciful." His tone was calm and serious; Antonio didn't argue, just did as he was told. He didn't fancy his chances against Arthur in a mood like that.

The first Thursday after, Gilbert felt like crying, or vomiting, or punching both of them. The fact that he was essentially responsible for Arthur's heartbreak (who had basically set the two up, after all?) made it all the more painful seeing Arthur's broken form. However, Arthur was yet to cry, and Gilbert and he had a thoroughly decent time getting piss drunk and ignoring the elephant that was practically busting through the ceiling it was so 'in the room.'

The first time Arthur forgave François, for a week or so, Arthur practically moved with François. "I can't trust you anymore." Being the reason for this. On the second day, Arthur came home to a romantic meal, a box of obscenely expensive chocolates, a pot of imported Darjeeling tea leaves and a posy of white roses. (François's uncle's friend had moved onto bigger things and he now managed the gallery.) François had spent enough time with Arthur to know what made him tick. "_Mon petit lapin,_ you know my heart belongs to you. I occasionally cannot control the urges of my body, but that is just sex, _non_? You must know I love only you. All others mean nothing to me!" Arthur kept his face blank, but inside was jumping for joy. There was one last matter to be cleared up. "Even Antonio? I've seen the way he looks at you, the way you look at him sometimes." François smiles warmly. He could see the finish line. "Antonio is nothing to me. Just a friend." Arthur's face melted into a smile despite the niggles at the back of his mind. François opened his arms and Arthur fit himself between them. François smiled a slightly devious smile over his shoulder as he realised Arthur was a lot less cynical and more forgiving than even he had dared to hope. In being so, Arthur had unknowingly opened the flood gates for a tsunami of infidelity.

The first time Arthur cried was Matthew, and it was also the first time he packed his bags. He was the last family Arthur acknowledged, and was visiting from Canada. Arthur had slightly forgotten about him, or not noticed him to begin with. François certainly noticed him, and perhaps Matthew took his revenge on Arthur for forgetting him that way. Perhaps he just didn't give enough of a shit about Arthur to ignore the attraction to his boyfriend.

But either way, Arthur pointed Matthew in the direction of a local hotel, and himself in the direction of the door. He never quite got there, though, François's profuse apologies and honeyed words luring him back into the trap. A small part of Arthur's mind was yelling 'How many times are you going to fall for this?' He decided to ignore it for the time being.

For the time being he would cry out his misery in his friendly local, watched helplessly by a man who really cared for him.

The first time Gilbert really despaired of Arthur was when he noticed, about two-and-a-half years into their relationship, there was a pattern, that the whole thing was a hopeless circle. Even after Arthur moved into François's house, François would cheat, and then apologise. Arthur would forgive him after a while. There would be a period of faithfulness, a sort of extended apology, or perhaps atonement, on François's part. Once he was sure Arthur trusted him again, he would cheat. Thus the whole thing began again. Gilbert noticed that as time went on, the periods of faithfulness – that is, the time between cheating – got shorter and shorter. Gilbert knew François had become complacent, expecting Arthur to love him for literally nothing but pain in return. He was hopeful for one reason. The periods of time between cheating and forgiveness were getting longer and longer, extending from overnight, to two days to a week to a month, and François hadn't noticed. He hoped Arthur would extend these periods from a month (often spent in his or Matthias's house, considering he had few other places to go) to forever. Either way, between the shortenings and the lengthenings, something had to give.

He never expected the something to be him.

The first time Gilbert did something other than offer practically meaningless comforts was a full three years after François and Arthur met.

Arthur had just got home from work (assistant romance and teen fiction editor at a publishing house) and caught François with Antonio for the sixth time. Instead of waiting for a Thursday to cry everything out, he had packed a few clothes in a rucksack and taken his motorbike straight over to Gilbert's house. If he had gone to Matthias's instead, life might've taken a very different turn.

But he didn't. And it didn't.

Arthur probably wasn't in a fit state to drive, but he managed to get there intact. When Gilbert answered the door, he literally flung himself into his best friend's arms, not caring about lines, or awkwardness, just wanting a hug. He was choking on his own sobs, so much so that he couldn't even get out his usual, "Say, mate, you wouldn't mind me bunking here for a bit, would you? The git and I have had a disagreement." Gilbert managed to get him inside and shut the door, but only by grasping Arthur's hand like you would a child and levering him off. He didn't let go, and neither did Arthur. Gilbert suspected this was him 'letting it all out', and he really needed human contact.

They got to the sofa in the living room, and almost before they sat down Arthur's arms were around Gilbert again. Gilbert felt so warm, until he remembered why Arthur was acting like this. Who caused Arthur to act like this. He had asked Arthur "Who?" at the door, knowing instantly why he was there from his tears and bags. It was only now, ten minutes later that Arthur had calmed down enough to squeak out "Antonio. Again."

Gilbert looked at Arthur, the man he loves, who was quaking in his arms, practically on his lap, having been betrayed by the one he loved for the nth time. He thought about his supposed, and by then practically estranged, best friends, who were probably still going at it in Arthur's absence.

And he thought about how he was essentially the root cause of all this. How he had essentially gifted François Arthur. How he had essentially gifted Arthur three years of heartbreak. How all the times he was there for him hardly made up for that.

And something inside him snapped.

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**Thank you so much to The Artist Formerly Known As for favouriting and following, and thank you thank you thank you to ayanami-verloren (who is awesome, read her stuff) for reviewing and following. (I'm not playing favourites, I haven't read any of The Artist Formerly Known As's stuff, so I will get round to that.) Getting a review is like my birthday, to me. I am a shameless review whore. Seriously, I may start holding the next chapters to review ransom (as I've seen to happen) if people don't review. I'm so evil, mwahahahaha. :P**

**I hope to get to the good stuff by the end of this week (here be dragons, or smut as most people call it) - I think the next chapter is the last I've written, before going on a two-week hiatus, or holiday as it's known. There will be approximately four more chapters after this including an epilogue, and not including any spin-offs I may want to do of this universe - the Lovino-Antonio-Francis cheating triangle needs to be resolved somehow, I feel (although I can't do FrSp that well, the dynamics are a little alien to me) for example. I want to get this wrapped up because I have a longer fic in the works - it's a sort of FrEng (specifically Eng - other Brit Bros. are involved, and there will be ScotEng but not in the normal way) fantasy if anyone's interested in that. For plot reasons (read: because I love bizarre pairings and triangles) there is going to be a triangle I have termed FrEngMania (it was originally going be FrEngNor but I can't write it and I prefer England x Romania anyway). **

**I love all of you. I am slightly high off the caffeine of three diet cokes in twenty minutes. Ah, caffeine.**

**ASAS xxx **


	7. If You'd Let Me, Part One

_If You'd Let Me, part 1: Snapped_

**This is my evil teaser chapter for the first (yes, first) climax, to be uploaded tomorrow. There will be sex (don't know if it technically qualifies as smut) in the climax chapter! Properly! I bet you're jumping up and down in anticipation! I love you all, review, please!**

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Arthur: 23

Gilbert: 24

Francis: 24

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Arthur packs his bag in a blind rage, so beyond upset he doesn't even notice the only clothes he's packed are his old punk stuff, although this is perhaps not exactly unconsciously. (Since dating Arthur, Francis had been, through disapproving glares, subtle hints and finally a full on wardrobe re-haul, trying to get Arthur to change his clothing, and indeed general attitudes on life. In recent months he had been successful: anarchy t-shirts were swapped for V-neck jumpers and waistcoats and Doc Martens for Oxfords, although he had been reluctant to give up his jeans, so those had been left. Gilbert and Matthias had been unapologetic in their opinions when Arthur showed up in his new garb. "You look like the prissy aristocrat on his day off." Had been Gilbert's verdict on the new wardrobe.)

Regardless to Francis calling him back, regardless to even Antonio, he runs down to the garage of the house they share. There he digs through the mess and the dust, past the old piano and the used tins of paint, to a monstrous form beneath a dusty sheet. His Triumph.

The vintage motorbike had been the only thing other than his now rented out Oxford flat left to him by his grandfather (Arthur's favourite family member) when he died, and it was Arthur's pride and joy. Francis had banned him from using it because of safety issues, scaring him with statistics about the proportion of road deaths per year that were motorcyclists, etc. "I worry for you, _chèrie_," was the reason given. The only thought in Arthur's mind right now is _Fuck him._

The key is still in the ignition where he left it, and he has to go through all the motions – getting the petrol into the engine, checking the oil – but when he revs the engine it's like he never left it. And it feels amazing, like meeting your best friend who you haven't seen in years and discovering they're still exactly the same, in a good way. He laughs almost maniacally, forgetting about Francis for a second. But it all comes crashing back, and he knows he has to get driving before the tears start to fall properly. He slings the rucksack on his back, and drives straight through the tins of paint, scattering them. He drives clean through the front gate, leaving the shaking garage door in his wake, keys still in place in the lock, as his only goodbye.

He really has no idea why it's this time he breaks, runs, leaves. If anything it should have been Dylan. But it's this time, and it hurts so much he's beyond caring about why. He just needs a friendly face, someone who'll care for him without the threat of being hurt. Gilbert's face instantly flashes before his eyes, and all of a sudden he knows where he's going. (Later Gilbert will claim it was destiny, but more likely it's because Matthias is never very good with comforting, and awkward when it came to hugs. His idea of comforting is going, "Ach, they're a pair of unawesome bastards." and then getting you another beer.)

He manages to get to Gilbert's relatively unscathed, excepting a honk or two. He leaves his Triumph in the driveway. The minute he gets off it the frayed string holding him together finally snaps so that by the time he gets to Gilbert's door, he is a sobbing wreck. He weakly bangs on the door, and thanks the gods that:

a) Someone hears him and

b) It's not Ludwig

Before reminding himself Ludwig moved in with Feliciano six months ago. (It was weird to think of Gilbert not lurking in the basement but sleeping in the bedroom of the house. If there was one thing Gilbert was good at, it was lurking – in pubs, clubs, basements, coatrooms. Anywhere dark and windowless. It just seemed to suit him, unfortunately for the woman who found him sleeping in the coatroom at her party.)

He forgets entirely about lines, or whether Gilbert actually minds (clue: he doesn't) and flings himself into his best friend's arms. Gilbert only asks "Who?" which he is grateful for, although not quite prepared to answer. They manoeuvre themselves into the sitting room, and onto an old, green velvet sofa (most of the furniture in Gilbert's house was chosen by his mum or his grandmother, it being her old house, gifted to Gilbert and Ludwig when she moved to a retirement home eighteen months ago), where Arthur promptly tucks himself into Gilbert again. They stay like that for upwards of ten minutes, arms around each other, no-one saying a word or commenting on the situation. Arthur's gratitude intensifies tenfold. He eventually croaks out between sobs, "Antonio. Again." Gilbert's hold on him noticeably tightens for about a minute. It then relaxes, and Gilbert stands.

"I'm going to go and get drinks, 'kay?" Arthur notices his fists are clenched. He remembers that Antonio and Francis are (used to be?) his other best friends, and so he is probably almost a fraction as confused and pissed off at them as Arthur is.

Gilbert doesn't act until a little later, although he had long decided on doing _something_. He couldn't leave things the way they were. Not anymore.

His stand comes a little earlier than he expects, or has planned for. They have been sitting in the seventies living room for some time, and both have had more than his fair share of alcohol. Arthur is recounting what a shit boyfriend Francis was and had been for some time. (A summary: Cheater, thoughtless, controlling, tried to change him, patronised him and treated him like a child, expected love for nothing in return and a general wanker, git, arsehole etc. Oh, and thought he was sex Jesus when he definitively wasn't.) Gilbert has been at once listening and mentally flagellating himself for handing Arthur over to the _arschloch_. The aforementioned _something _happens when Arthur asks for the second time in as many months, "Would it be too much for him to just love me?"

Gilbert has the thought again. However in his inebriated state he doesn't notice that he has in fact said it rather than thought it. And rather loudly at that.

"I would love you, if you'd let me." His mind catches up with his tongue. His hand claps over his mouth in sheer terror, and he looks over to Arthur with nothing short of fear in his eyes. However, Arthur looks only mildly surprised, and has a rather calculating look on.

He is in fact incredibly surprised, but Arthur is a fast thinker, even when drunk. He totals up the amount both of them have had to drink. Gilbert has had a six pack, and he has had two shots of rum and a rum-and-diet-coke. Enough to blame it on booze if they come to regret it.

_Right then._

"Prove it." His tone is final, with a hint of challenge.

Gilbert looks utterly flabbergasted. His usually dormant German ('**Prussian!**' as Arthur was so often reminded) accent comes back in force at his shock. **"Vat?!" ** Evidently not the reaction he was expecting to his word vomit.

"I'm sick of Francis cheating whenever he fancies and using me like some sort of combination of a safety blanket and a free hotel. If I'm going to cheat with anyone it may as well be you, and who knows, maybe you can prove to me you're not like him, and that you love me. We've had enough booze as an excuse. We might as well." Arthur's tone is matter-of-fact and almost cold, despite a strange feeling somewhat akin to hope bubbling away in his stomach. He remembers briefly what being in Gilbert's arms was like. _It felt warm and safe. There was no edge to it: no insistent pull towards sex and no promise of future hurt. I don't think he's like that. It felt nice, being in Gilbert's arms. _He is somewhat more resolved now, and turns to Gilbert expectantly.

Gilbert is ostensibly considering it, although actually just trying to get over his disappointment that it all seems to mean so little to Arthur. He decides he doesn't mind being used, so long as it's by him. _So this is what Arthur feels like all the time_. "Okay." He finally agrees.

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**Evil cliffhanger is evil. Please review, I will get my friend Vincent who is a bull with panther legs to throw you off a cliff onto a jelly if you don't.**

**True story.**

**Luvubyee!**

**Alipally xxx**


	8. If You'd Let Me, Part Two

_If You'd Let Me, Part 2: The Beginning of the End_

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**Warning: Sex (smut?). If you don't like it, I've put a line divide where it ends, so skip past it and read that bit! I try to cater to most tastes, excluding those who hate swearing, because that is frankly fucking ridiculous. ;)**

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There is a moment of mutual confusion over how exactly it's going to work. Then Gilbert leans in towards Arthur, who is sitting adjacent to him on the sofa in front of the Perspex coffee table in the sitting room, and gently presses their lips together. It is soft, and sweet, and lasts about seven seconds. Gilbert is very tentative because he can't quite believe this is happening. He looks for any signs for him to stop, or keep going, on Arthur's face. Arthur cocks an eyebrow at him – 'tentative' and 'Gilbert' aren't often heard in the same sentence.

Gilbert suddenly remembers he has been wanting this for three years, and how much he doesn't want to mess this up. A wave of desire and confidence hits him, and they collide more forcefully this time, Gilbert sucking on Arthur's lower lip. They kiss like that for a while, before Gilbert runs his tongue along Arthur's bottom lip, asking for entry. While this has been going on, Arthur's hands have gone to Gilbert's head, and are running through his hair. Gilbert's hands have settled uncontroversially around his waist, pulling him closer until Arthur has practically no choice but to sit on his lap, at first with his legs on the sofa at a right angle to Gilbert's and then with a leg either side, straddling him.

At Gilbert's request Arthur opens his mouth and a battle of tongues begins, eventually won by Gilbert although Arthur didn't give up without a fight. Now dominating the kiss, Gilbert explores Arthur's mouth with interest (and finds kissing real Arthur is incomparably better to imagining it). He feels blood flowing to his lower regions when he elicits a moan from Arthur by sucking on the muscle in his mouth. The tangle of tongues and teeth continues for just a while longer before both have to break away for air. Normally by this point Gilbert would barely pause, going straight for the neck, wanting things to move as fast as possible. But it's different. It's Arthur. And Gilbert intends to make this as special as possible, make him feel as special as possible. He wants to make it Awesome. He makes eye contact with jewelled emerald eyes, his burning ruby glaze making Arthur shiver a little, before pausing to survey his work.

Arthur is panting, they both are. His hair is messy, and there is a little glistening of sweat at his temples. His lips are swollen and bitten and his cheeks look like apples they are so flushed. He looks absolutely beautiful, unbelievably sexy, in Gilbert's opinion, and he would take him right then if he didn't want to make it last.

Arthur has not been kissed like that for some time. He can tell Gilbert had been waiting for this – the intensity of the kiss was quite shocking. Arthur suspects that comes from releasing a long time's (how long he wonder at) worth of pent up emotions. Truth be told, Arthur is beginning to see Gilbert in quite a new light. But he's not quite ready to contemplate what that means, preferring instead to dwell on how excellent the kiss was. Francis was never gentle, or tentative so much as demanding and dominating. Arthur didn't mind at the time, but he finds that given the other option he prefers it sweet and romantic, with a sort of simmering passion. He likes kissing for the sake of kissing, not just as a pathway to bed. And that was something he never got with Francis. (If he was thinking straight, he might have been alarmed at how he was already thinking of Francis in the past tense. But that's not the sort of thing you notice when you're in Arthur's position.)

He does realise one thing, however. He really doesn't mind being with Gilbert this way. He briefly imagines trying something like this with Matt, and it makes him want to cringe and laugh at the same time. But with Gil, it feels – and there is only really one word for it – right. Like how it should be.

Gilbert begins again, this time butterflying kisses down his jawline and to his neck, pausing at the pulse point to bite and suck, forming a mark. Arthur keens, and it goes straight to his already slightly hard cock. He has marked Arthur with a lovebite. He can't quite believe it. He continues trailing kisses down to Arthur's collarbone, biting briefly. He returns to Arthur's face, resting his forehead against the smaller man's so they are eye to eye and nose to nose. He needs to get something out there before it goes any further. He needs Arthur to know exactly how much this means to him. "Arthur – I…" He falters for a second, before returning to his native language "_Ich liebe dich." _He finds he hasn't got the courage to tell Arthur in a language he'll understand. It's too hard.

Arthur seems to get the message, though, and kisses him sweetly at first before building to something altogether more passionate. Tongues are once again involved, although Arthur capitulates in the battle for domination somewhat quicker this time. Gilbert runs his tongue along any surface he can reach in Arthur's mouth, twisting his own tongue around his partners occasionally, playing with the stud lodged in it (Various impure thoughts come into mind concerning that stud, but he saves them for later hopefully). Sporadic moans are heard from the both of them. Gilbert breaks away first, and they are joined only by a thin strand of saliva for a second before it snaps. Arthur, more than a little breathless, asks "Where the hell did you learn to kiss like that, and why didn't you tell me?" Gilbert smirked, his cocky attitude somewhat returning, and replied, "Comes naturally, babe." Arthur's eyes narrow dangerously. "Never call me babe, arsehole. I prefer 'Artie' to babe. Jesus Wept, I prefer '_lapin_' to babe." Gilbert looks a little nervous and apologetic.

"So babe's a deal breaker."

"Damn straight."

Gilbert refrains from adding, _that's a little ironic considering where you're sitting_. Instead he gets back to business, not wanting to mess his chances up. He'd forgotten how commanding Arthur could be, and how his confident and no-nonsense attitude was one of the things that attracted him to Arthur in the first place. _Although if he thinks he's topping he's sorely mistaken._

They continue kissing for about five minutes before Gilbert breaks away again. This time though, he leans forward, his breath ghosting over Arthur's left ear. His teeth graze the lobe gently, and Arthur shivers. He moves up to lick the shell before whispering "How about we move this to the bedroom?" He sinks his teeth into Arthur's lobe a bit more forcefully this time, his tongue brushing the double studs there.

Arthur considers exactly what the offer entails. He thinks about all the times Francis has done this to him – his original motivation, as well as the alcohol still coursing through his system. But that doesn't seem that important to him anymore, somehow. He asks himself whether he wants to do this, whether he wants to do this with Gilbert, and finds the answer to both to be a resounding yes. He feels better about sex than he has for ages – Gilbert is sweet and romantic, as opposed to with the self-proclaimed 'Roi d'Amour' where it felt like an obligation after the first few urgent times. And he had no idea how much he missed just making out on a sofa like he had when he was a teenager.

He leans forward to Gilbert's ear, playing him at his own game, and gently grazes it with his teeth before licking it and murmuring sensually, "I thought you'd never ask." He hears Gilbert swallow.

He is about to get up and walk when to his complete surprise Gilbert slams their lips together. He gasps and Gilbert swallows it, slipping his tongue in. Never breaking the kiss, Gilbert puts a hand under each of Arthur's thighs and stands up. Arthur wasn't expecting something so dramatic, but obligingly wraps his legs around Gilbert's waist, allowing his partner's hands to move to his backside. Gilbert gropes at Arthur's firm posterior and Arthur emits a moan which he swallows gleefully. He practically sprints up the stairs to the bedroom in a way that is not inexperienced or unbalanced, to the extent that it's almost suspicious, and walks into the bedroom, placing Arthur on his back on the bed. Arthur again raises an eyebrow at the conduct, although for a different reason than previously. "You've done that before." He accuses between pants. Gilbert grins and for some reason it just fills Arthur with warmth, and the hope-like feeling from earlier intensifies.

"Could you tell?" He asks cheekily, before sitting on the bed next to Arthur. Arthur is about to question what he's doing before Gilbert flips himself over on top of him, a hand either side of his head and a knee perilously close to his crotch.

No more words are exchanged, and Gilbert sucks on Arthur's neck and palms his slight erection through his jeans, provoking a louder moan than has yet been heard. Gilbert pulls off Arthur's vest and Arthur simultaneously begins unbuttoning his shirt, planting kisses with every new bit of skin revealed. Evidently he has decided to get revenge for the now numerous purplish bruises dotting his neck and shoulders, for he begins biting and sucking wherever he can until Gilbert has three rather large hickies on his neck, collarbone and chest, as well as numerous smaller ones. Gilbert moans, and remembers Arthur isn't going to just be a rag doll and let him do whatever he wants. He isn't sure he'd like that anyway.

Gilbert sucks on one of Arthur's nipples, circling his tongue around it, while pinching the other. Arthur moans, but Arthur looks up at his partner confused when he draws away. Then Gilbert goes for the zipper on his jeans. He undoes the button and yanks them down along with his boxers demandingly. Arthur winces at the friction, and the contact with cold air. They go the way of the shirt and vest, thrown in the corner somewhere and forgotten. (Both of them are immensely grateful that Gilbert enforces a bare-feet policy in his house. He doesn't want the carpets messy (which is a cause of constant teasing) and he can't stand the smell of used socks.)

Gilbert bends down and grips Arthur's thighs in each hand: they are both kneeling up on the bed, face to face. By now Arthur is unillusioned as to what is coming, but that doesn't stop him moaning in pleasure when Gilbert blows air on and then licks the tip of his fully hard cock. His hand fists in Gilbert's hair, and he manages to pant out "Ah… Nngh… Gil… Please…" Gilbert understands, of course he does, and swallows as much of Arthur as he can, maintaining eye contact. Arthur shudders at the fiery gaze, his eyes clouded with lust.

He swirls his tongue along the length, gently grazing it with his teeth when he bobs his head. Arthur's moans drive him crazy. Gilbert's throat contracts around Arthur's cock and he fondles his balls a little. Arthur feels a familiar coil in his stomach and almost screams "Stop! Ah… I'm going to…" But Gilbert continues and true to his almost-word, within a few seconds Arthur releases in Gilbert's mouth, open eyes seeing nothing in pleasure. He cries "Fuck, Gil!" Gilbert swallows his cum, licking his lips teasingly, before a grin spits his face in two. Arthur has flopped over onto the pillows of his double bed and is staring at the off-white peeling paint on the ceiling. Gilbert lays next to him, keeping a lid on his impatience for the minute, and kisses him softly.

"What was that for, love?" Arthur asks a little sleepily, evidently still blissed out (a painful reminder of his own slightly leaking erection, still in his jeans.) Gilbert's heart flutters at the endearment – he's never heard Arthur call anyone love before.

"I was convinced you were gonna yell _his _name… which would have been unawesome, but yeah. I wasn't expecting you to… yeah… that was awesome." Gilbert is mumbling a bit, and Arthur kisses him if only to shut him up.

Gilbert's erection is painful with need, and Arthur clearly hasn't forgotten (in fact he's very impressed with Gilbert's restraint, and consideration. He can't help but compare this favourably with Francis's impatience and urgency. It's not like Francis's bad at it per se – quite the opposite, in fact. But it just never seems special to him, or meaningful, in the same way it does to Arthur, whereas Gilbert and he seem to be more on the same page.)

"I think it's only fair we deal with your problem now, isn't it?" Gilbert looks relieved as Arthur unbuttons his baggy jeans and removes them along with his boxers. Both now fully naked, Arthur asks, "Where d'you keep the lube?" Gilbert instantly replies, "Left-hand bedside table, second draw down." Before realising he is nearer and grabbing it from said draw. He squirts some in his left hand. He kisses Arthur on the lips passionately, biting his lower lip, stroking his back with one hand. He slowly inserts one finger into Arthur's hole, and waits ten seconds so he can adjust. Arthur flinches a little but then relaxes. He wants to be as careful as possible, despite what he terms his 'cock brain' screaming at him to just flip him over and get on with it. As nice as that sounds to him at the moment, he wants to show Arthur he is loved, even if by the wrong person (he cringes a little at the thought). And if going slowly makes sure it's sweet, then so be it. He inserts another finger, and waits ten again before starting to scissor them slowly. He speeds up and starts thrusting, and Arthur's winces begin to turn to moans. They are both kneeling, Arthur's arms wrapped around Gilbert's neck and his head on Gilbert's shoulder. Gilbert's unoccupied arm is stroking his partner's back soothingly. Gilbert adds a third finger, still scissoring and thrusting. He wants to make this as easy for Arthur as possible (and also slightly wants to see him beg.)

Arthur is getting a little impatient, not to speak of Gilbert, who is in agony (_It'll be worth it, it'll be worth it.._.) Gilbert starts pinching his nipples and kissing his neck lightly, and while that was nice a few minutes ago, Arthur really wants him to get on with it, now. And when Gilbert runs a finger down Arthur's cock, now hard again thanks to Gilbert's ministrations, Arthur knows what game Gilbert is playing. He pulls off of Gilbert's still thrusting fingers. He grabs the white haired man's head and looks him straight in the eye. Gilbert's own eyes, darkened to black cherries with lust, widen a little at the intensity of the glare. Arthur makes clear what his problem is. "No teasing. Francis teases and I can't fucking stand it." Arthur smashes their lips together passionately and reaches for the abandoned lube bottle. He pulls back and says "And if you won't hurry the fuck up and fuck me then I'm going to have to move things along myself." He grins a little at Gilbert, who protests, "I was just trying to make sure you'd be ok, and enjoy it, because this has to be awesome!"

Arthur's smile softens and he kisses Gilbert very sweetly and briefly, at the same time squeezing out some lube and warming it between his fingers. "I know, love." Gilbert's already straining cock twitches at the endearment, and Gilbert really doesn't think he'll last long, he's so urgent for release. Arthur continues, applying the lube to Gilbert's cock, "I was only teasing. I appreciate it, but I'm not a bloody china doll." Gilbert groans loudly at the much needed contact to his length, and grunts "Good. Then I don't need to feel guilty for what I'm about to do." He then picks Arthur up, lines up the head of his length to Arthur's hole, and slams him down on it, practically screaming at the tightness and the heat. Arthur flinches but grins and moans at the contact.

He waits agonisingly for about eight seconds for Arthur to adjust, before giving Arthur a look. Arthur, who really appreciates how patient Gilbert has been, just wraps his legs around Gilbert and nods. Gilbert begins thrusting into Arthur swiftly and shallowly, both of them moaning in unison. Gilbert gets on his knees and lifts Arthur's knees over his shoulders for a better angle, yet to find the bundle of nerves that will make Arthur scream. Arthur whines at the loss of contact, but his nails claw Gilbert's back as he wastes no time thrusting back in again, until Arthur is fully impaled.

He pulls out and slams back in again, deeper than before, and when Arthur screams "Shit! Gil!" he knows he's found his prostate. He continues thrusting deep and fast, moaning out "_Scheiβe!", "Fich!" _or "Arthur!" sporadically as the coil already tight in his stomach feels close to bursting. Arthur's tight heat feels like nothing before him, it just feels perfect. He fists Arthur's cock in time with his thrusts and when Arthur cries out "Gil… Ah… I'm so close!" Gilbert concurs. At the last second Arthur pulls him into a fierce kiss, and it tips them both over the edge. Gilbert can't quite tell what comes first – the glorious release or the sensation of Arthur clenching around him and then something hot and wet on his stomach. He yells Arthur's name and Arthur reciprocates, and they are finished.

Gilbert pulls out, sated and basking in the afterglow, and collapses into the pillows at the head of the bed with Arthur in his arms, spooned against him.

* * *

Arthur is in a similar state of satisfied sleepiness – it's the best sex he's had in a while, and he is more than questioning exactly what made him stay with Francis for so long when there were apparently always other options. But this, along with his feelings for Gilbert, can be figured out later.

Although he doesn't think that figuring out his feelings will take very long when, just as he is drifting off, he hears a whispered 'I love you' in his ear. A kiss to the top of his head swiftly follows. His ultimate thought is _When did Francis last do something like that? _before he departs for the land of sleep.

Gilbert is not quite asleep yet, instead preferring to gaze adoringly at his unrequited love. He doesn't regret what he has just done, quite the opposite, but there is still a hand clenched around his gut in despair and a voice saying 'It's Francis, it was always Francis. He is just using you to get back at him, he'll leave you no matter how much Francis hurts him.' His chest aches and he can't help but cry a little.

Arthur is yanked from his dozing state within a minute by what is unmistakeably a tear drop on his forehead. He opens his eyes to Gil staring off into the middle distance, his eyes watering. Arthur is concerned, although his heart sinks because he can guess why Gilbert is like this, and the following conversation will doubtless involve questions Arthur can't quite answer yet. But he thinks the answers are getting clearer every second. He enquires, "Gil, love, what's wrong?" And Gilbert knows it's silly but the butterflies nesting in his stomach flutter at the slightly meaningless endearment. "Nothing." He doesn't want to scare Arthur off, and he fears he'll blurt his feelings out if he reveals any more. He never did have much control over his tongue.

Arthur gives him a sceptical look, even when sleepy, and counters, "Bullshit. We've been best friends for years, fuck, we've even had sex before, why does this change anything? Tell me."

And for the second time Gilbert snaps. "I can't, because you're like this. Because it's like this. After this, you will go back to Francis, and he will forgive you and you will forgive him, and then he will cheat, again, and you will come running to me in the _Verdammt_ pub and cry your _Verdammt_ eyes out, and I won't be able to do anything even though it kills me to see you like that because we are just friends, to you. You can't even see me as…" He trails off, sad and exasperated and feeling tortured inside. "I don't know how to make this clearer to you, you are the most _Verdammt _oblivious person I've ever met. You can't even see how awesome you are, because you are, and you are also the most heartbreakingly beautiful, funny, witty, comforting, loyal person I've ever known. You can't even see… how much better you could do." He is running out of steam a little, but ploughs on. He takes Arthur's hands in his. "Artie… Arthur… Can I make this crystal clear?"_ Deep breath now… _"I love you. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you." Gilbert searches Arthur's face for a reaction, and is relieved to see Arthur smile softly, blushing.

Through the whole speech, Arthur's brain has been whirring. _Francis is never like this. He never… _His mind searches for the right words… _is earnest like this. All complements are with the aim to get somewhere, achieve something. All his pretty words… Meaningless, superficial. _In his mind he chuckles humourlessly. _Just like our fucking relationship. _Gilbert's words touch him in a way he doesn't feel often. _Are we, though? Are we really just friends, to me? _He remembers how right being in Gilbert's arms, being with Gilbert, felt. He remembers before, how much fun they have together, how nice he feels, how loved, when Gilbert is around. _No, I don't think we are, or ever were, really. Compared with, say, Matthias, there was always something __more__ with Gil. _By now he is blushing, and Gilbert's full on, all-or-nothing confession knocks him upwards backwards and sideways emotionally. _He loves me…_ And then all of a sudden he can name the hope-feeling from earlier, and it's so fucking obvious he feels like a moron. And it's out before he can stop it, and before he can realise he doesn't want to. "I love you too. I bloody love you, Gil. I have for ages, I think." It's said with a tone of wonderment and elation. He knows it's worth it when Gilbert smiles in a way that's so warm and loving he just melts, it's so different from his signature smirk. He wants Gilbert to wear that smile all the time, and the fact that he caused it fills him with joy.

_But I love Francis… don't I?_ The question is apparently heavy on both their minds: Gilbert suddenly frowns and voiced both their thoughts, "But… You love Francis…"

Arthur looks as confused as Gilbert feels. He replies "I know. At least, I thought I did. Let me just work out a way to explain this…" A moment of thought. "I think… It was more I needed him to love me." He frowns, and continues, "So it was worth it. All the pain. As long as he loved me, deep down, I could let him cheat, because he was mine. If he didn't love me, which he doesn't, I'm sure, I would have to face the fact that I have wasted years of my life on him, with him. And the longer it went on, the less I was ready to face that fact." Gilbert still doesn't fully get it. "But you said… What about…me?" Arthur thinks again.

"I think the love has been there, I just didn't know what to do with it. Didn't understand it." Gilbert and Arthur share a warm smile: they both realise they've been in the same boat, without knowing the other was there. "Do you remember when we went to the park?" Gilbert blushes deeply and Arthur gives him a weird look.

"Er, _ja_." He rubs the back of his head awkwardly. Arthur doesn't question him, luckily.

"That was when I think I started loving you. At the end you were all shimmery in the sunset with your white hair and red eyes, you were just stunning. It would've been so easy to just lean over and kiss you. But I didn't, because I didn't know why I wanted to do that. Because it would've been weird, or awkward. Because I didn't want to risk our friendship. And because of Francis." Arthur grins darkly, and sadly. "And we wouldn't want to cheat on Francis, now, would we?" Gilbert returns the smile: their mutual acquaintance (for that is all he really is now) has caused them both pain, as it turns out. He returns Arthur's favour in a sentence.

"I have always loved you, because I'm awesome like that. I worked it out the day Francis asked you out. That was pretty unawesome. And before you ask, I'm not quite as straightforward as you think. I'm awesome at hiding my emotions. Well, I'm just awesome generally." Gilbert is practically bouncing off the walls he looks so happy.

Arthur rolls his eyes at the arrogance with a, "Shut it, arrogant git." But then he kisses him and smiles into the kiss to show he doesn't really mean it. Gilbert marvels at how quickly they seem to have returned to their normal dynamic, if a little more affectionate. _Like we've been dating for years and just not quite put two and two together._ They share a smiley kiss for a second before Gilbert pulls away. He looks at Arthur slightly apprehensively and asks:

"Arthur?" Gilbert's tone is nervous and a little pleading.

"Yes?" Arthur sounds a little wary.

"Stay. With me. For good, that is." Arthur smiles again and Gilbert sighs with relief.

"I wasn't intending to stay with Francis, idiot. I'll get the rest of my stuff tomorrow." Gilbert smiles and then looks worried. "Awesome! How are you going to tell him?" Arthur frowns, and sighs sadly.

"I… will write him a letter and leave it for him when he gets home from work. I'll ring in and say I'm moving house tomorrow – which is true – and get the day off. I just… can't face him. I can't… trust myself not to listen. Not to believe him. I… it's what I know. I can't trust myself not to fall again." Gilbert nods grimly, and then smirks,

"The great Arthur Kirkland can't face his 'pansy-arse' boyfriend?" Arthur frowns and gives Gilbert a punch for his effort.

"You utter arsehole! You can fucking face him if you like!" Arthur flushes and looks away.

Gilbert rests his head on Arthur's shoulder, still not quite believing it, but not wanting to waste any time pussyfooting around. He smiles softly and whispers, "Aww, you love me really, Artie." No reply. "Love you, Artie." There is a muffled grunt circa the pillow. "What was that?" Gilbert smiles indulgently.

"Love you too, git."

And with that they go to sleep, both unbearably happy, both anticipating the following day (inevitable confrontation) with a mix of eagerness and dread.

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**I am going on holiday so won't be able to upload for two weeks. I wanted to leave on a high note, though. Please keep an eye out, final confrontation with Francis and more to come! As ever, read, review, follow, favourite! It means a lot.**

**Loveyoubyee!**

**ASAS xxx**


	9. The Last Stand, Part One

**I'm back! This might have the feeling of a last chapter but I reckon at least two more chapters and an epilogue will do it before I post the next story I'm working on. (Mentioned it in an A/N a few chapters back).**

**I'll be updating weekly from now on, but regularly – no mad rushes and then two week gaps.**

**I am thinking of doing a Spamano-ish chapter about the confrontation. I have this thing of Arthur phoning Lovino and giving him the low-down on Antonio and Francis and Lovino's reaction to it. I would love some reviews to see if anyone is interested in this because frankly I can't be bothered to write it if no-one is interested.**

**Let me know!**

**xx**

**I own nothing except the plot. All the stuff is (C) ****the owners, singers, authors, designers/programmers, record labels, companies relevant.**

* * *

_The Last Stand, Part 1: They Say One Man is the Cancer_

Arthur waited until he was sure both Francis and possibly Antonio had left for work, having got an idea of Antonio's working hours from Gilbert. He turned his key in the lock cautiously, opened it no more than a crack and slunk in. He didn't take his shoes off. It felt like he was breaking in: the home didn't feel like his, never had really. The hallway felt far too large. Every step seemed to echo as he walked towards the kitchen, where he would leave the letter. His keys became hot and sweaty in his hands; they cut into his as he clutched them too tightly. He pulled the letter from his pocket and placed it on the table, eyeing it warily as if it might spontaneously combust if he looked away.

Arthur then proceeded to take everything he saw as his. He packed the rest of his punk stuff, eyeliner, studs, a few t-shirts, creepers, converse and DMs. He puts his 'new' clothes and shoes in the bag, only to take them out and fling them on the front lawn in a rough pile. He felt for his lighter and ran downstairs to get Francis's cooking spirits. He soaked the clothes and shoes in the spirits, but resolved to burn them at the last possible moment. The image of Francis's panic when he came home to a bonfire is too good not to indulge.

He added at the end of the letter, in eyeliner,

P.S. I must be the only disgruntled ex-partner in history to burn my clothes in the front garden. But they were never really mine, just one more way for you to control me. In a way, they are yours.

P.P.S. Nothing else of yours is burning.'

He couldn't be too cruel. It wasn't gentlemanly, even if Arthur definitely didn't go for the whole wishy-washy 'we can still be friends' bullshit.

He went about getting his record/CD collection, a few band posters and other knick-knacks. Francis wouldn't be back for hours but he was getting antsy. It wasn't so much the bad memories that disturbed him so much as the good ones. When he picked Monty Python and the Holy Grail and Blackadder from the living room shelves he was bombarded with memories: Francis and him sitting, laughing, watching them together, getting distracted, kissing. _'Je t'aime, Arzhur.'_ Started to echo around his head. He never could get Arthur's name right. Arthur would always complain, but secretly found it slightly charming. He cleared his head, stuffing the offending items in his bag and left the room, faintly shaking.

There was a twisting sensation in his gut, regret, perhaps, but then a list appeared in his head. _Antonio, Lovino, Feliciano, Ludwig, Yao, Elizaveta, Bella, Bella's brother, Michelle. Matthew, Alasdair, Alfred, Dylan._ His face steeled. He took the boxes he'd bought, filled them with all his books (there were many, and all his: Francis only read cook books and gossip magazines with the occasional foray into cheesy erotica, which Arthur constantly berated him for.) He then surrounded the pile of alcohol-soaked clothes with a circle of water – he wanted to burn the clothes, not the house – and set them on fire, before loading the bags and boxes into the trailer on the back of his bike. He drove off, feeling three times lighter than when he came, the crackle of the flames his fond farewell.

Gilbert had rung in sick as well, and was waiting for Arthur when he got home. (Arthur said he wanted to do it alone. Gilbert said he sounded like a character in a bad soap.) His eyes widened slightly at the sheer amount of stuff guy-roped to the trailer of Arthur's bike. Arthur noticed and explained "It's mostly books and CDs." Gilbert's face had an 'ah' look to it. "I was gonna say, what did you do, ransack the house? Because as awesome as that would be I'm not sure we could afford as good a lawyer as he could." Arthur smirked and replied, "I didn't ransack the house, but I did set fire to my new clothes." Gilbert grinned.

"You are the first person I've heard of who set fire to their own clothes when their boyfriend cheated on them." Arthur gave him a weird look.

"That's almost exactly what I put on the letter, have you been following me?" They exchanged a small smile, and Arthur dismounted from his bike, and walked over to Gilbert. They shared a brief, searing kiss with their arms around each other. Gilbert pulled away but didn't let go, instead choosing to rest his forehead on Arthur's.

"I was terrified you weren't going to come back." Arthur looked down, a wry smile on his face. He replied, "I wish I could say you were the only one. There are too many memories in that house, and not all bad. I'm not a complete masochist you know; there were some good times in the relationship." Gilbert had a fake pout on as he said, "You didn't let me finish." Arthur lifted his head up and raised an eyebrow. Gilbert continued, "I was terrified you weren't gonna come back, and then I thought, 'Why would he pick that bastard over the Awesome me?'" Arthur rolled his eyes and huffed, "You really are a smug git, you know. And the annoying thing is you're right, dammit." They turned and walked towards the house, after picking up a couple of boxes from the trailer. Arthur turned his head and looked at Gilbert over his shoulder and said, "You realise you just totally ruined the moment."

The albino smirked his signature smirk, "You love me really, Artie." Arthur said nothing all the way up the rest of the drive, and his partner was freaking out a little. Then at the door Arthur put both the boxes down, pecked Gilbert on the lips and smiled. "I bloody well do. God save me."

"Love you too, Artie." Arthur couldn't help but blush at the sincerity. "I got you flowers." Gilbert nips inside and presents Arthur with a bunch of white roses, and Arthur almost laughs because Francis always got him red roses when he cheated. Arthur loved red roses, but, but. White roses had a certain glow to them, a softness of petal and scent that when contrasted with the sharpness of red made them infinitely preferable. He allows himself one more comparison: Francis and red roses are in your face, their beauty practically yelling at you, their scent at once lovely and unavoidable. Gilbert and white roses are pale, and unassuming, and you are unlikely to notice how truly special they are unless you are really looking. Unless you know them.

A quote comes to his mind "It is only with the heart one can see rightly_._ What is essential is invisible to the eye." The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. How ironic, it would be French.

The rest of the afternoon passed relatively uneventfully apart from Gilbert deciding that playing Jenga with Arthur's Complete Sherlock Holmes, Complete Jane Austen, and Complete Works of Shakespeare sets was a good idea. Which led to Arthur discovering that CD cases make excellent weapons, much to Gilbert's displeasure.

At around four o'clock – approximately an hour after Arthur got back, or twenty minutes after Francis got home from the gallery he now managed – a 2011 Renault Clio pulled into the driveway next to Arthur's bike (Gilbert didn't have a car: used to just nicking Ludwig's he never got round to getting a new one after his brother moved out, this assuming he could even afford one – he was still only a junior mechanic.) Arthur spotted it first, and flinched. Gilbert pulled him into a tight hug, protectively, and whispered "You can do this. It's just Francis." Arthur wriggled out of his grip when he heard a car door slam, batting at his lover's arms and hissing "I bloody know that, shut the fuck up." Before feeling a little bad and returning the hug, saying "I'm sorry, this is really bloody out of my comfort zone." Gilbert just kissed him on the head (a knock at the door) and said, "I'll stay out of this, you go on and talk to him. I have a feeling he'll just get angry if I'm there."

Arthur walked to the door as if to the guillotine, and opened it warily. He was not at all prepared for what he saw. Francis was in a state. His hair was knotted as if he had been pulling at it, his eyes were red and his face was too. Arthur felt a slight sadistic satisfaction in seeing Francis in the same state he had been in many a time.

"Francis?" He was trying so hard to keep his voice from cracking.

Francis croaked out, a practical whisper, "Arthur… I…" He then looked at him with blurred vision and grabbed his jumper, full on weeping. Arthur was a little taken aback.

Francis arrives home at three o'clock, having been let off early (Arthur leaves just ten minutes before he pulls into the driveway through sheer luck) to be greeted by a very controlled bonfire on his front lawn. He gasps and runs to get the hose, succeeding in putting it out by ten past. This is clearly a fire by human hand, and he can't help but wonder which of his ex-lovers he provoked enough to set fire to his home and most likely his stuff. He goes clean past the kitchen, not noticing the letter yet, instead running to the bedroom to look for things that could have been taken. He is mystified. All of his stuff is intact. But then he notices Arthur's draw is slightly open, and rather than overflowing like it usually would be, there is not a single thing hanging out. Scratch that, there is not a thing in it. A seed of panic is sewn in his stomach. He checks for Arthur's laptop under the bed (from late night writing sessions.) Gone. iPod on the bedside table. Gone. Shoes, t-shirts, toothbrush, toiletries, gone. He runs to Arthur's study. It is bare, apart from the desktop computer, from which the hard-drive is missing. Books, CDs, box-sets, posters, gone. He checks around the house. Artworks Arthur bought, gone. Trinkets from his gap-year travels, gone. His favourite films, gone. Everything that means Arthur is gone. Even his guitar (he never moves his guitar) and his precious motorbike.

Francis has an inkling as to who is behind the front-garden bonfire. He assumed Arthur wasn't home because he was at work or Gilbert's (where he normally flees after discovering Francis _in flagrante _with someone else. Francis cringes a little when he thinks about it. He more than knows Arthur is too good for him, and that what he does is unforgivable, but he can't help it. He absentmindedly remembers the lyrics to some Smiths song Arthur was briefly obsessed with: _Does the body rule the mind or does the mind rule the body? I dunno. _It's definitely the former in Francis's case, although he does feel bad, every time.) But now…

He notices Arthur's keys are in the bowl, despite him not being home. Everything he had been denying clicks and he thinks he can feel his heart shatter. _You stupid bastard, this is your fault. You pushed him away, and now you are paying the price. Sweet Jesus, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. You effectively broke your own heart. And now he's gone, and you have no way of finding him. Fat chance he'll answer your calls or texts._ His conscience is yelling at him. He starts crying, walking to the kitchen table and flopping in a chair. His elbow brushes against the letter, and he notices that far from being a bill or a bank statement it is hand written, has no stamp and is addressed to him. The writing is Arthur's looping cursive.

It goes like this.

'Francis,  
I'm twenty-four tomorrow. I don't believe I'll sit through another year of you sewing up my lips.

I am writing this letter because I know if I did this face to face, you would just tempt me back with your pretty words, and I can't let that happen. I can't trust myself not to fall.

I can't take it anymore. You have sucked the love from me, and would continue to if there was any left to suck. I would love you if you told me there was something there to love, for to have to take so much love from others there must be little to none to begin with, for all your claims about spreading it. You treat me like a combination of a hotel and a safety blanket: you could fuck who you wanted as long as I was there. Even if everyone else said no, I would always be there in the end, with my undemanding love and implicit trust and my endless fucking forgiveness.

I'm done, Francis. I've been a fool, a blind fool, and this relationship has brought me nothing but pain. Blind to the emptiness of your words – your pretty, meaningless words – of our relationship, of your heart. Blind to how you control me, change my clothes, my music. You even banned me from riding my motorbike. For fuck's sake, no one's banned me from doing anything since I was a kid. Except the law, and you.

And what did I get in return for giving up my clothes, music, bike, property – I never wanted to leave my flat, move away from my friends and away from campus – way of life? Not even unconditional love or fidelity. Not even to be looked on as an equal. In fact, I think that was partially my fault. Every time I caved in to you, you respected me a little less, took me for granted a little more. I dug myself a hole and you took full advantage of that, fucking whomsoever took your fancy, even having a practically permanent lover in Antonio, and then talking me back with pretty words and chocolates. And so it went on: we would act perfectly fine, like a normal couple, except I would sit in the pub and get fat on chocolate and rum while you bedded the entire country. All because I loved you.

Except I didn't. I realise now I haven't loved you in the purest sense of the word since Matthew. More I needed you to love me, needed to love you, as an excuse. To make my sacrifices, my pain, worthwhile. The more time I wasted on you the further I went into denial about your love and mine. I don't know if you think you love me, but if you truly did, I would be enough. I won't have any trouble getting over you, because there is nothing left to get over.

So now we are at the hard part of the letter. Francis, there is another reason why I won't have much trouble moving on, and why I am clearly the most oblivious person on the planet. I cheated on you with Gilbert, just once, and I don't regret it at all. In fact I am leaving you for Gilbert, and I won't pretend it doesn't feel weird writing that. This whole thing is new to me.

That's not to say I don't love him. I do, with my whole heart. I love him in a way I never loved you: purely, as my best friend as well as my boyfriend, and unconditionally. And it's the same with him. Did you know he realised he loved me on the same day as you asked me out? He hid it the whole time, for you and for me, even when, as he has for the first time disclosed, he found you making out with Antonio in the restaurant where your pathetic trio was supposed to meet. He did it because he cared for you, and wanted you to be happy. He was always there for me, and I was so blind to it. This is so cliché, but the perfect guy for me was in front of me the whole time and I never saw it, instead choosing to suffer through you. I wonder, what if he told me first? Gil and I might've been spared three years of pain.

I imagine by the time you realise I was the best thing you had in your life, you'll be on your deathbed. Or perhaps when your next-but-one boyfriend or girlfriend leaves you after the first or second time cheating, rather than the twentieth, then it will click. Sorry, that is just indulging my vainest fantasy I know, but I couldn't help it. I hope you feel some remorse, or at least a little upset. I do, but more at the time wasted.

The point is, Gilbert is proving a better partner than you ever were, and we've been together. Everything about him is more sincere.

They say one man is the cancer and the other is the knife that makes the cut.

Goodbye, Francis.

No longer yours,

Arthur'

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**Final part of this chapter will be up next week. Woohoo! Only one chapter and an epilogue after that and my first EVER ff is complete!**

**Thankyou sooooo much to anyone who has ever reviewed even if I've already given you a shout out – that is, in chronological order, ayanami-verloren, Jawshy, The Artist Formerly Known As, Little Miss Innocent Liar, RhavenL and anonymous. **

**I love you all!**

**ASAS xxxxS**


	10. The Last Stand, Part Two

**Insert Witty Disclaimer**

**Or**

**I own nothing here. Everything (c)**** whoever owns it.**

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The Last Stand: _Pac Men and Zombie Apocalypses_

* * *

'Francis,

I'm twenty-four tomorrow. I don't believe I'll sit through another year of you sewing up my lips.

I am writing this letter because I know if I did this face to face, you would just tempt me back with your pretty words, and I can't let that happen. I can't trust myself not to fall.

I can't take it anymore. You have sucked the love from me, and would continue to if there was any left to suck. I would love you if you told me there was something there to love, for to have to take so much love from others there must be little to none to begin with, for all your claims about spreading it. You treat me like a combination of a hotel and a safety blanket: you could fuck who you wanted as long as I was there. Even if everyone else said no, I would always be there in the end, with my undemanding love and implicit trust and my endless fucking forgiveness.

I'm done, Francis. I've been a fool, a blind fool, and this relationship has brought me nothing but pain. Blind to the emptiness of your words – your pretty, meaningless words – of our relationship, of your heart. Blind to how you control me, change my clothes, my music. You even banned me from riding my motorbike. For fuck's sake, no one's banned me from doing anything since I was a kid. Except the law, and you.

And what did I get in return for giving up my clothes, music, bike, property – I never wanted to leave my flat, move away from my friends and away from campus – way of life? Not even unconditional love or fidelity. Not even to be looked on as an equal. In fact, I think that was partially my fault. Every time I caved in to you, you respected me a little less, took me for granted a little more. I dug myself a hole and you took full advantage of that, fucking whomsoever took your fancy, even having a practically permanent lover in Antonio, and then talking me back with pretty words and chocolates. And so it went on: we would act perfectly fine, like a normal couple, except I would sit in the pub and get fat on chocolate and rum while you bedded the entire country. All because I loved you.

Except I didn't. I realise now I haven't loved you in the purest sense of the word since Matthew. More I needed you to love me, needed to love you, as an excuse. To make my sacrifices, my pain, worthwhile. The more time I wasted on you the further I went into denial about your love and mine. I don't know if you think you love me, but if you truly did, I would be enough. I won't have any trouble getting over you, because there is nothing left to get over.

So now we are at the hard part of the letter. Francis, there is another reason why I won't have much trouble moving on, and why I am clearly the most oblivious person on the planet. I cheated on you with Gilbert, just once, and I don't regret it at all. In fact I am leaving you for Gilbert, and I won't pretend it doesn't feel weird writing that. This whole thing is new to me.

That's not to say I don't love him. I do, with my whole heart. I love him in a way I never loved you: purely, as my best friend as well as my boyfriend, and unconditionally. And it's the same with him. Did you know he realised he loved me on the same day as you asked me out? He hid it the whole time, for you and for me, even when, as he has for the first time disclosed, he found you making out with Antonio in the restaurant where your pathetic trio was supposed to meet. He did it because he cared for you, and wanted you to be happy. He was always there for me, and I was so blind to it. This is so cliché, but the perfect guy for me was in front of me the whole time and I never saw it, instead choosing to suffer through you. I wonder, what if he told me first? Gil and I might've been spared three years of pain.

I imagine by the time you realise I was the best thing you had in your life, you'll be on your deathbed. Or perhaps when your next-but-one boyfriend or girlfriend leaves you after the first or second time cheating, rather than the twentieth, then it will click. Sorry, that is just indulging my vainest fantasy I know, but I couldn't help it. I hope you feel some remorse, or at least a little upset. I do, but more at the time wasted.

The point is, Gilbert is proving a better partner than you ever were, and we've been together. Everything about him is more sincere.

They say one man is the cancer and the other is the knife that makes the cut.

Goodbye, Francis.

No longer yours,

Arthur'

* * *

Francis mouths the words of the letter, running his hand through his hair and pulling the ribbon out, and if he thought his heart was broken before then he was a fool, even more than Arthur claimed to be. _This can't be true… He must have loved me or he wouldn't have stayed… Gilbert… This must be a joke… I did love him. I do love him. _He weeps into the letter, his tears mingling with the dried out stains of Arthur's own, smudging the ink. _I already know you were the best thing in my life; I just… never showed it. And they weren't meaningless; I don't just throw words around, no matter what you might think. _He realises thinking these things is useless, he should have said them to Arthur when he had the chance. He should be saying them to Arthur now.

He can't quite get his head round the bombshell-in-letter-form that has been so nonchalantly left on his kitchen table. _He loves Gilbert and Gilbert has loved him for three years, unrequited, to protect both of us… I'm such a crap friend… and all the Bad Touch Trio meetings where Toni and I made out and he just sat there. Oh, fuck._ He can't just let Arthur go though, because he knows Arthur is the best thing that has ever happened to him. And he gets a little angry, because if Gil had just moved on and kept his fucking nose out, Arthur would still be his. He buries the voice that says Arthur would leave eventually anyway, found someone else anyway, Gilbert or no. _That bastard, I'm going to kill him._

_I have to get Arthur back. _

That one thought in his head he grabs his keys and runs to his car, grabbing a red rose from a vase on his way out – a peace offering. The black ribbon from his hair is still in his hand so he ties it around the stem carefully, jumping behind the wheel at the same time.

He pulls into Gilbert's drive and walks to the door, hovering with his hand on the doorknob and his head on his hand for upwards of three minutes before knocking. Arthur answers. He wants to sneer, 'Gilbert not have the balls to face me then, albino _bâtard_?' But he is well aware that he really can't get off on the wrong foot on this one. He is well aware that this is his last chance.

The letter effectively telling him so is still clutched in his slightly sweaty hand. He is aware that he doesn't look the best but has a feeling that isn't going to matter.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, his face cold. "Francis?" His tone indicates he isn't surprised, let alone pleased, to see him.

"Arthur… I…" His clever tongue fails him; the pretty words never come. He grabs helplessly at Arthur's t-shirt in hope of a lifeline. But Arthur's face remains cold, if a little surprised (neither will ever really fathom how much emotional turmoil the other is in at this point in time).

"You what?" Arthur is fighting to keep his voice level. _If he says the word sorry I'll never fucking forgive him. He thinks that word is some kind of get-out-of-jail free card._

"I didn't… realise…" His words are scattergun-punctuated with sobs and gasps for breath but he perseveres, "…that you felt …so…" He lets go of Arthur's jumper leaving two splotchy tear marks and gestures wildly. He doesn't have the words.

Arthur is at once frustrated and sort of pleased: this bumbling wreck is showing pure emotion, not the carefully considered, overly-honeyed word-bait he usually gets. He knows this is serious; they both do.

"I… those words are real, Arthur. I swear to God, I have never said anything like that to anyone else. I would never tell anyone else I love them, because it wouldn't be true! Arthur, _je t'aime seul, vraiment, toujours._"

Arthur shakes his head and looks down to hide his glistening eyes. "If you loved me, you would be faithful. Even if you do love me in your own way, I can't take it, Francis. It physically hurts me that I am not enough for you. I cannot be with someone... agh, god." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "With someone who doesn't respect me, and you don't because you trust me not to leave you no matter what you do. Consciously or unconsciously, subconsciously, perhaps, you see me as a constant, not something to be cherished. Even bitter old husks such as me needs to be cherished sometimes, and I need someone who knows that." He gives a wry smile as the tears dry a little.

Francis looks almost defeated and bitter. "And Gilbert is that someone, _oui?_"

Arthur sighs. He has been waiting for this. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. But I will say this. Gilbert and I have been friends for years, and would trust each other with our lives. I honestly can't say that for us. He and I know each other in a way that we just don't."

Francis isn't giving up. "Arthur, _mon lapin_, please. I need you. I love you. You're breaking my heart, please, just come back, I'll never cheat again, please. I mean what I say, I just… want you to love me more than anything in the world. I would give my life for you. I'd be broken without you." Francis searches Arthur's face for any signs of forgiveness, finding none. He does notice Arthur has eight fingers held up for a reason he can't work out, so ploughs on. "He can't love you like I can."

Arthur's face is impatient, his tone dry and rancorous. Inside he desperately wants to just go with Francis because it's safe, normal, natural, and almost homely. His aching heart and the albino in the sitting room help keep his defences up. "Wow, that's a lot of points you just made. Let's go backwards, shall we? Love me like you can? What, unfaithfully?" Francis looks ready to object but Arthur silences him with a look. "If you're broken without me, I am broken with you. You wouldn't die for me, honestly. Have you read 1984? Everyone would rather have someone else, no matter how dear, face death. I did love you, and you used me. Won't cheat my arse, you've said that a hundred times before. No, I won't come back and why should I care when you seem to delight in eviscerating mine? You might need me, but the feeling's not mutual, anymore, understand." Francis nods dumbly. Arthur's rapid-fire verbal attack has left him in tatters. The answers to all the questions Arthur asked evaporated along with his arguments. He has lost, he understands. It is mostly if not fully his fault. He is no longer angry at Gilbert. Francis didn't, what was the word, 'cherish' Arthur or hold on to him while he had the chance. It was inevitable that Arthur would leave him for someone else.

(Retrospectively he thinks he would have put his money on the Danish man who threatened him when they started dating, the jealousy was blatant. But then you always miss what's right under your nose.)

He says to Arthur, nervously, "Could I have a farewell kiss?" He knows it's over when he is nervous asking Arthur for a kiss. Arthur understandably raises an eyebrow. Francis wants this, so he says, "You can have Gilbert watch if you want, I want to talk to him anyway." Arthur seems to consider it and then clarifies, "No funny business." Francis just nods. "And when you say 'talk'…" Francis smiles reassuringly.

"Just talk. I bear him no ill will anymore." Arthur nods back, and Francis releases a breath he wasn't aware of holding. Arthur calls his boyfriend. "Gil! Come out here a sec."

Gilbert comes from the living room. "What is it, _hase_?" He doesn't grab Arthur's hand or slide an arm around his waist – he doesn't want to make this atmosphere more aggressive than it already is. Francis notes this with a combination of admiration and slight disappointment. Gilbert really is a more considerate lover than he is. If it were the other way round he would probably have picked Arthur up and snogged his face off. His possessiveness was ironic for obvious reasons.

"Francis wants a 'good-bye kiss' and to talk to you. No funny business." Green and red meet. The two current lovers seem to have a silent conversation. Gilbert gives a similar curt nod to Arthur's.

Francis steps forward and leans forward, closing his eyes. Arthur does the same and their lips collide.

Gilbert's fists and jaw clench but he does not intervene. Arthur will deal with this and he trusts him.

It is definitely a goodbye kiss. It sears Arthur with heat but there is no tongue. Francis does not dip him but respectfully places a hand at the small of his back and the other at the back of his neck. Both Arthur's hands are at his ex's neck. There is a good ten centimetres of space between their bodies. It feels a hundred thousand times more than that.

It's not just the distance, the respectfulness, the tentativeness (so much that Arthur is reminded of first kisses: the emotion, the caution.) There is the sense of an ending: Francis is reliving all his memories of the good times they had; Arthur feels as if they are both unloading all the emotions they took from each other, trying to transfer all the feelings conjured back to their rightful owners through a kiss. The distinct taste of salt water lingers on their tongues. This kiss is waving goodbye at an airport gate for the last time, and it burns with pain and regret. It feels like something is dying. In a way, that is the right feeling.

They pull away. Arthur steps back into Gilbert who relaxes, although still does not lay a hand on him. Arthur is the one to grab Gilbert's hand. Francis at last lets go of the hand of Arthur's he grabbed from the back of his neck during the kiss. He imagines himself a drowning man whose saviour has abruptly decided he's not worthy of rescue.

He severs the final tie with a grimace before his face blanks. He cannot show emotion or he will full on break down. He is devastatingly alone, in a way he has never been before. The only constant in his life, the only person who can reliably bring him happiness is gone. He has lost. To an egotistical faux-Prussian albino who he used to call his best friend.

He looks up, facing his fear. His eyes drift, unstoppable, to their joined hands before snapping back to Gilbert's face. "Gilbert… _Mon vieil ami, _I hold no ill feelings for you, at all. I lost Arthur, and you just picked him up again. Who am I to intervene with matters of the heart?" The words grate in his throat and taste bitter on his tongue but if he lets his anger take control he will never forgive himself. "You clearly love each other and I wish you both all the best. Arthur, I will always love you. Gilbert, I am grateful to you. You gave me the three happiest years of my life with a man I never deserved, and who frankly stayed with me longer than I had any right to hope for."

Seeing Arthur's confused expression at the last part, Francis adds almost incredulously, "But of course,_ cher _Gilbert would not even take credit for that. Has he never told you why I asked you out in the first place?" Arthur shook his head uncomprehendingly. Francis smiles knowingly, "It is not my story to tell, and it would probably just make you hate me more, _mon amour_. I am sure he will recount it to you when he is ready. _Adieu, mon amour, mon ami_." He nods at the pair, smiling slightly. Gilbert meets his eyes and says, "Thank you, Franny- Francis. It means a lot. That was awesome of you. I mean, I don't think I could be so forgiving that quickly or whatever-" He cuts himself off before he rambles on forever, as he is wont to do in tense atmospheres. Francis gives a sad smile on recognising the characteristic and unknowingly returns it.

They both understand that they too are parting. Though not as friends, at least not in enmity.

Arthur smiles softly. He decides that French has really got the appropriate word for this farewell. "_Adieu, François._ It was decent of you to act so mature. I wish I could say the same."

As he turns to go, getting the reference, Francis replies, "Arthur, I would be disappointed had you not burnt something." With that, he heads towards his car.

As Francis walks down the drive, the French of another Little Prince quote resurfaces in his mind (because things you want to remember always come a little late). It seems bizarrely appropriate to him. On a whim, he summons his GCSE French and hopes for the best.

"_François!" _Francis turns his head, baffled at Arthur's apparent uptake of his French name. He answers warily, and a little hopefully despite everything, _"Oui?"_

"_Venir ici! J'ai un secret pour vous!" _Francis's bafflement multiplies tenfold, as does Gilbert's. Francis wanders back over, standing about a metre in front of Arthur. Not knowing the French for 'come closer' Arthur closes the distance between them until they are a hair's breadth apart. He leans forward until he could lick the other's ear if he wanted (that brings back memories) and whispers something to him. Francis's eyes widen almost imperceptibly and his eyes sparkle with moisture as Arthur tears are silent. Arthur continues in English, "Francis, I hope you can become less the conceited man and more the the fox."

Francis turns and leaves in his car without another word. He pulls into a side street and lets himself cry for a while. He resolves to cry only today, and no more. After that he will try to move on. If in a year he still feels like crying then on this day alone he will cry. An anniversary.

He notices that the rose is still on the passenger seat. He looks at it with a feeling of disgust; it is a bribe and nothing more, he is glad he never gave it to Arthur. He throws it out of the window, black ribbon and all, and drives off.

A young blonde woman with cropped hair like a man's, brave eyes and a lithe form notices and goes across to pick it up. She notices two initial printed on the ribbon: FB. She pockets the rose and walks on. Perhaps she will try and find FB. He looked like he needed comforting.

* * *

Gilbert pulls Arthur back into the house. Arthur shuts the door with his back and slides down it until he is seated. His face is blank. Gilbert joins him and doesn't say a word. Words are the source of misunderstanding, after all.

Arthur at last whispers "I don't know whether to laugh or cry." Gilbert's arms tighten around him and he replies, "If I were unawesome and selfish, I would say laugh. But I guess it's good to cry, sometimes." Arthur gives him a slightly amazed look. "When did you turn into such a sap?" Gilbert blushes, remembering his accusation at himself from the pub, and says, "I'm not sappy, I'm awesome."

Arthur blushes a little, and breaths out through his nose. He looks away. "You are. Don't ever change, Gil." Gilbert grins and says, "Now who's sappy? You're too cute." Although he is positively glowing (it being the first time anyone other than himself has called him 'awesome'.) Arthur elbows him in the stomach half-heartedly but then tilts his face upwards (cursing the inch or so height distance that just wasn't there with Francis) and kisses him softly. Gilbert returns the kiss and it gets intense for a minute or so before Arthur pulls away and rests his head against the door. They sit there in companionable silence for a little until Gilbert's curiosity gets the better of him.

He asks, "What did you tell him before he left?" Arthur gives a knowing smile.

"I just quoted/bastardised bits from Le Petit Prince at him." Gilbert isn't going to take that as an answer.

"Tell me." Arthur rolls his eyes, but understands really. He would have been just as demanding were their positions reversed.

"Fine. I said '_Vous êtes beau, mais vous êtes vide. On ne peut pas mourir pour vous._ You are a creature of and for the eyes, _François. __Mais les yeux sont aveugles. Il faut chercher avec le c__œ__ur.__"'_ Gilbert's eyes widen and then soften.

"Wow, that's kind of harsh, _hase._ Although I like the end part." He frowns at the nickname. He doesn't know much German but he can guess.

"Don't call me bunny, I've had enough of that for a lifetime." Arthur's scowl is quite unrivalled in grumpiness. He has a thing about patronising rabbit nicknames.

Arthur considers the first part of Gilbert's reaction. He smiles slightly, although his eyes are sad. "He needed it, I think. Because it's not just him or even just me that he's hurt. His head wasn't deflating by itself so I burst it." Arthur's pensive expression abruptly changes to a grin. "You know, your head would be like that if it wasn't for me and Matt keeping your feet on the floor." Gilbert rolls his eyes; he's heard that before.

"Oh, _ja, ja_, rub it in. Also, I'm way too Awesome to be a douchebag." Arthur smiles teasingly.

"Oh come on, you have to admit the rest of your Bloody Twats Trio either already were or turned out to be wankers and arseholes." Gilbert looks a bit uncomfortable but then admits, "_Ja_, they kind of did." A thought occurs to Gilbert. "_Gott, _it's a good job Matt never caught on, oblivious idiot, or Francis's body would be smouldering in a skip somewhere by now."

Arthur chuckles. "You're completely right, it is a bloody good job. As much as I hate the guy he doesn't deserve a broken face." His grin turns a little devious. "Hey, that potential skip-bound smouldering body is yours, now. No cheating or I'll set Matt on you." Gilbert looks a little offended and replies,

"I promise, the Awesome Me will never, ever, ever, ever cheat on you." The blonde man rolls his eyes at the self-glorifying adornments but kisses him and says "I know." Just quietly. He's already given too much of himself to this man to be safe, and it scares him, a little.

He ponders, "Why is Matt so protective of me anyway, do you think?"

Gilbert grins teasingly. "Everyone wants to protect you. You're a scrawny man-child who can't stick up for himself, and would probably commit suicide at the first sight of heartbreak if it wasn't for the Awesome Me and the less Awesome Matt. It's endearing."

Arthur gives him a look. Gilbert promptly legs it. Arthur doesn't hesitate to give chase, yelling, "Scrawny man-child my arse! How about I prove you wrong, you albino bastard! Get back here and let me kill you!" This continues for a good ten minutes until Arthur corners Gilbert in the living room and pelts him with cushions. Gilbert will later claim to be visibly bruised by the pillow abuse. He will also never call Arthur a scrawny man-child ever again.

They unpack all Arthur's stuff as well as they can; Arthur realises he has forgotten some stuff but doesn't want to face Francis again, no matter how much he wants his fifties-esque pod-chair back. Francis's house shared with Arthur was quite a lot bigger, and they eventually decide that they will use Gilbert's old basement bedroom as a sort of hideaway for them both: Arthur will keep his Fender guitar (his second most cherished possession to his motorbike – he was in a terrible punk band at Uni called The Mock Turtles for a reason no-one could explain, and reached near-mastery of it), records, posters and amps, and Gilbert will have table football, his seven games consoles (X-Box live, PS2, Game Cube, Nintendo 64, SNES and Atari 2800 – "They're vintage and Awesome, don't diss!") original Pac-Man machine (complete with small pile of quarters) and an air hockey found on eBay. Arthur shakes his head at the sight. "You are a total geek."

"Hey, nerds are Awesome. Who went around smacking the zombies with shovels in "Shaun of the Dead"? We'd be doomed in a zombie apocalypse without the nerds."

Arthur snorted, "Yeah, because the best way to defeat a zombie is to beat it at -Man."

All thoughts of Francis and the confrontation of the afternoon are forgotten.

They're just a normal couple arguing about Pac Men and zombie apocalypses.

* * *

**Hey,**

**I know there is apparently implied onesided DenEng, but I don't see it that way. My opinion is their relationship is brotherly (to make up for being/having crap brothers, which is also my headcanon for the Fail Brothers Trio when I'm not shipping PrUK i.e. replacement brothers for each other) and my Matthias is therefore very protective of my Arthur. I see the DenEng as just Francis's perception of it, not the actual relationship.**

**Although if you like it, feel free to see it that way. **

**I just think that would be taking it towards a World x England fic, and that's not what this is. I've always wanted to write one but this ended up as a World x France x World (if you know what I mean) one.**

**Translations:**

**French**

_**Je t'aime (seul, vraiment, toujours) –**_** I love you (only, truly/really, always)**

_**Oui **_**– yes**

_**Mon lapin **_**– my rabbit, the infamous nickname**

_**Mon amour **_**– my love**

_**Mon ami **_**– my friend**

_**Adieu **_**– Goodbye forever, for the last time (there isn't really a single word translation for this into English)**

_**François **_**– French form of Francis**

_**Venir ici **_**– Come here**

_**J'ai un secret pour vous **_**– I have a secret for you (formal)**

_**Le Petit Prince **_**– The Little Prince (a bit obvious, but oh well.)**

_**Vous êtes beau, mais vous êtes vide. On ne peut pas mourir pour vous.**_** – You are beautiful, but you are empty. Nobody would die for you (quote).**

_**Mais les yeux sont aveugles. Il faut chercher avec le coeur**_** – But the eyes are blind. One must search/look with the heart.**

**German:**

_**Hase **_**– hare/bunny**

**Thank you to my latest followers and favouriters! I'd appreciate a review if you haven't already!**

**Thanks to Call me Pinay, tmmdeathwishraven, and ayanami-verloren, whose name I can at last spell without looking. I am shamelessly in love with all reviewers.  
**

**Review please! It means so much! I'm thinking I might end it here but if anyone wants I can do a couple more chapters (Matthias's reactions, Francis's reactions and future, what happens with Antonio and Francis and Romano (I'm thinking Lovi finds out) and their future, although I'll probably do that as an epilogue anyway). So review and let me know!**

**Loveyoubyee!**

**ASAS xxx**


	11. How To Break A Heart, Part One

**So this is a small diversion chapter away from Arthur and Gil because I really wanted to resolve the whole Francis-Antonio-Lovino thing. I figure something's got to give.**

**I am very evil, and I am also using crack pairings as plot devices. So over the next two chapters there will be Denmano, with Arthur and Gil as spectacularly unsubtle matchmakers. Oh, and one-sided SuDen, proper SuFin and depressed Denmark. Should be good!**

**Also the tomato martini is trufax. Google it.**

**I own nothing except the plot. You can eat my hand if I'm lying.**

**From now on over the next week I will upload a series of 1000-ish word mini-chapters tying up a few loose ends so I can focus on In the Heart of the Forest and Please Don't Send Me Roses in particular. This should be done by a week on Saturday, fingers crossed.**

* * *

_How to break a heart in under twenty words Part One_

Lovino was on his third tomato martini. They were damn difficult to make; tomato water takes ages to acquire, but he fucking deserved it. _When the tomato bastard comes back I'm going to throw the glass at his head. So fucking there._

* * *

At three o'clock, before Lovino went off on his late shift at his _Nonno_'s restaurant, he had received a call. Checking the caller ID he was surprised to see the words 'Depressed Eyebrow Bastard' alight at the top of the screen. He had a momentary debate over whether or not to answer him, before deciding even _he _couldn't be drunk at three in the afternoon. He pressed 'Accept call' on the screen. What he was greeted with was not a depressed eyebrow bastard but a surprisingly serious sounding Gilbert. "Is that you, Romano?" (Lovino hated his "girly" first name as much as he hated being called 'Lovi~', so naturally Gilbert took any opportunity greet him with it, drawing the syllables out so it became 'Loh-_veeeeeee-_noooooo~~'. The fact that Gilbert was calling him by his much preferred middle name was a worry in himself.)

Naturally Romano (as he shall now be called) was surprised at hearing potato bastard number 2 on the phone. "Albino potato bastard?" A heavy sigh on the other end of the line.

"_Ja, _that's me." Romano was almost panicking. He hadn't even argued back…

"Why are you on eyebrow bastard's phone? What do you want, bastard?" He was yelling, unbelievably confused. "Has something happened? Why the fuck are you calling me?" He could almost hear Gilbert rubbing the bridge of his nose over the phone. _So the bastard Potato Brothers do have something in common._ "I don't know if you'll want to hear this…"

"**So why the fuck are you telling me?!**" Romano yelled over him.

"**Would you just shut the hell up for once?** _Mein Gott, _are you trying to break the verdammt windows?" Romano shut the hell up. Gilbert was known for many things, but yelling was not one of them. He was generally a very laid back guy. _Che, his even more idiotic brother makes up for the lack of yelling. Feli has no taste in men. He must use all of it on pasta. _"So what is it?" He asked in a small voice. He had the strong and unexplained urge to wave a white flag around. _Fucking Italian heritage. _Again he heard an intake of breath on the other end.

"Antonio cheating on you with Francis wasn't just a one-time thing. He's been doing it with Francis for, oh, five years?" Romano felt his world shatter around him. Twenty words to a broken heart.

"But that's…" He trailed off and Gilbert finished the sentence for him.

"Longer than you've been dating, I believe. Sorry, man." He felt a sob build up and chokes it out brokenly through his throat. "So.. what? I'm the _other woman_!" His voice came out as a screech and more than a little hoarse. A new voice emits from the phone's speaker. One with a decidedly more British accent.

"No, it's not that bad. Francis was the other woman before you even came on the scene, Romano." The use of this name by Arthur was not surprising. He knew Arthur sympathised with the whole stupid nickname thing. The sympathetic tone, however, was. Arthur was not known to be the most tactful or caring character, but he sounded like he was involved in some kind of attempt to foil a suicide.

"Why did you have to tell me?" A whisper, but the microphone picked it up. He felt Arthur's guilt, second thoughts practically visible in the air. He came to the conclusion it was not the eyebrow bastard's idea.

"Would you rather he kept doing it? I left Francis when I found them in our bed, fucking like homosexual rabbits, for the twentieth time. And that was just those two!" He knew Arthur is letting out frustration at Francis but the anger in his voice riled Romano up.

"Well fuck you! I didn't need or want to know! This is just your fucked up revenge on Antonio!" He didn't know whether to hang up and throw the phone at the wall or giggle hysterically when Arthur said, "You're a poet and you didn't know it." But Arthur continues with, "Sorry. I have a tendency to insert inappropriate humour in awkward situations." He chuckled a bit uncomfortably. "But you are genuinely too good for him, even if you are an angry tomato obsessed wanker." Romano knew an affectionate insult, and indeed an affectionate-insulter when he saw one. Takes one to know one after all. He smiles a little.

"Thanks, eyebrow bastard." A though occurs to him. "Wait, you left Francis? And you haven't slit your wrists?" He remembered Arthur being depressed enough when he was still _in _a relationship with Francis. He seemed actually more chirpy than then, on the phone. He thinks he can hear Gilbert laughing his weird laugh slightly dampened by the obvious distance from the phone.

"Anytime, tomato wanker. And I'm with Gilbert now. So, yeah. Quite a lot happier, actually." Romano's sadness came back tenfold. _Fine for some, isn't it, bastard? _Is what he thinks. What he says is, "_Dios mio, _and I thought you had standards, eyebrow bastard! At least the gropey bastard was good looking." He hears a distinct 'Oi!' in the background. Gilbert must have heard that. Romano couldn't help but wonder why he was never properly friends with these people before. Arthur and Gilbert with their daft double act made him smile more in thirty seconds than the grinning tomato idiot managed in a year. But then he's always enjoyed trading insults. And Antonio always was too nice for that. Maybe he was compensating. Another sob choked out, the depression nearly crushing him. He could barely breathe.

Arthur on the other end started to panic. "Hey, hey, calm down, love. Look, come out drinking with us tonight. Don't worry, you won't have to play gooseberry, we've got another friend coming along too. It'll be fun!" It was fair to say he wasn't used to dealing with sobbing Italians having a breakdown over the phone. "Meet us at the Swan at seven?"

Romano sniffled a bit. "Y-yeah, idiot. I guess. See you there. Bastard." He hung up and slumped against the wall before shuffling to the kitchen. He made a quick call to his _nonno _informing him that he couldn't work tonight as his heart was rotting in his chest.

The tears burned his eyes as he ran around the house in a blind rage, gathering all of Antonio's stuff and piling it in the hallway. In a brief fit of childish pique, he stomped up and down on the pile until he heard something snap.

He grabbed the vodka and tomato water and slumped at the table waiting for Antonio to come home, hand over one eye.

A few miles away in a basement, two men stared at the phone. The blonde-haired man looked worried, nervously chewing his lip. The other one had a confident air although was without his trademark smirk.

"Do you think we did the right thing?" Arthur was sat on a bean bag, staring at the phone, still. The tears had freaked him out a little. Despite his large amount of experience with them he still didn't know quite how to deal with them in others. "I mean, will he be OK? He's not going to slit his wrists or give himself alcohol poisoning, is he?" Gilbert grinned lazily from his position reading a car magazine on the sofa, sitting across it with his shoes defiantly on. Ludwig might not have been around to yell at him anymore but old habits die hard.

"No, that's what you do." Arthur turned a bit red and scowled at him.

"Bugger off, you insufferable twat! I have never slashed my wrists or given myself alcohol poisoning! Your levels of arsehollery increase daily!" Gilbert's grin increased to Cheshire cat levels.

"I don't see you leaving, _hase._" The shorter man went even redder.

"Why can't you take **anything** seriously? And **no. Bloody. Animal. Nicknames!**" Gilbert rolled his eyes but softened his smile.

"Hey, calm down. He'll be fine. The Awesome me is there to support him, and you too, of course!" Arthur's deadpan look said it all. "You love me really, eyebrows."

"Whatever you say, goat face." But of course, he walked over and kissed the Prussian anyway. "You may be a red-eyed idiot, but at least you're my red-eyed idiot." This was followed by a rather undignified squawk as the red-eyed idiot pulled Arthur onto his lap. "Love you too, _hase_."

"Fuck you." Or rather "'uhk 'oo." Arthur's face was squashed on the arm of the sofa after all.

* * *

In a different pub to his usual, a man with spikey hair sat alone with a Carlsberg beer and a wedding invitation. _Berwald Øxtenstierna and Tino Väinämöinen invite you to their wedding reception at the Ritz hotel. _He rested his head on the bar in despair,his usual cheerful smile completely gone.

The fifteen little words on the invitation, no, summons, burned in his mind. Fifteen words for a broken heart.


	12. Blood Brothers

_Matthias and Berwald_

* * *

**This is just the history of Matthias and Berwald – yes, SuDen, and SuFin – which is leading up to the Denmano, which there will definitely be. Because I love both of them, and they fill a hole in each other's lives! Also, I think a Skirmish-Fail-Brothers-Quartet would be totally cool and they would be kind of bound to get along.**

**This is in no way based on history or canon relationships. It's just for plot purposes (although I have stuck to the 'template' of both SuDen and SuFin.)**

**Also, Danish-Australian relationships are rather good from what I gather (largely based on SATW, though, so don't take it as gospel. Denmark just needed one interim friend between the Nordics and the Fail Brothers.)**

**Just to make it clear, I am messing with the traditional Nordic relationships for plot purposes. No offence intended!**

**Read and review!**

**ASAS xxx**

* * *

The first time Matthias and Berwald met, they were eight and seven respectively.

_A small boy of no more than eight climbs on to the bench against his fence. He is bored, and has been for a good twenty minutes. He is bored with the swing and the trampoline, bored with the TV and his toys. Everything's boring when you're by yourself, he supposes. He had moved to this new house not a month ago and had already scoped every nook and cranny, every den and hiding place. Although it is a very new house, so everything is wide and open plan. There is little exploring to be done._

_He surmounts the last mystery: the fence dividing his and the adjacent garden to the left (he has already examined the next-door-to-the-right neighbour's house via trampoline. However there was an inconvenient cherry tree blocking his view of the left._

_His heart leaps when he sees a child perhaps a year younger than him, sitting on a woollen rug which is a patch on an obscenely neat and manicured lawn bordered by absolutely perfect flowerbeds and shrubs of every size and colour. Water trickles down a pile of rocks into an uncovered pond. There is not a child's toy in sight._

_The kid sits absolutely still. His hair is combed flat, and his intensely blue eyes stare at nothing behind wire frames._

_Matthias vaults the fence with some difficulty and yells "Hey! Kid!" He kind of expects the kid to jump and is a little annoyed that he just looks at him, a slightly confused frown on his face. Jeez, he vaults the fence and yells and the kid hardly blinks. What does he have to do to get a reaction? "I'm your neighbour, th'awesome Matthias Køhler! Who're you?"_

_The kid gives him a very powerful glare that would probably be terrifying on someone older. "Wh't 're y' d'ing 'n m' g'rden?" Is the only verbal response he gets. Matthias takes a minute to process the slightly bizarre speech pattern before replying, "Th'awesome me was bored an' came t' see you, of course!" He speaks so fast his words run together slightly, making him sound about two or three years younger than he actually is._

_The confusion level of the frown increased a bit. "'ve n'ver seen y' b'fore."_

"_I jus' moved in. Besides, be happy! You don' 'ave to be boredanymore! Play with me!"_

"'_m not 'llowed t' play. Migh' g' d'rty,'n put mud in the house." Matthias makes an expression like he had been told that Berwald isn't allowed to breathe. "So you've never made a mud pie?"_

"_No."_

"_Played 'it'?"_

"_N'-one t' play with."_

"_**What **__do you __**DO**__?" His surprise expressed itself in a yell and flings his arms in the air for emphasis._

"_Read b'ks." Matthias gasps dramatically before realisation dawns._

"_Only child?"_

"_Y'p."_

"_Me too! This is awesome! Well, not awesome tha' you're not allowed to play, bu'… you 'ave me now!" He grinned a manic grin which did nothing to decrease the other's wariness of him._

"_Th'awesome me hasalot to teach ya! Now, wha's your name, kid?"  
The younger one gives him a look, like he's sizing Matthias up. He apparently decides he is effectively harmless, because he replies, "B'rw'ld."_

"_Borwuld?"_

"_**B'rw'ld.**__"_

"_Oh. Cool name, kid. Wha'ever th'ell it is, ahahaha!" He grinned even more before running up and tapping the other. "Yer it!" He sees the other's expression and adds, "C'mon, chase me already!_

_A tiny smile spreads across Berwald's face. He's never been included or played with like this before: his mum used to play with him, but she died when he was four. Sometimes he can barely remember her face or her voice. His dad is obsessive with cleaning, now, and discourages friendships in fear of mess._

A firm friendship was formed. They became each other's replacement brothers (although Matthias got an adoptive brother, Norge, at the age of ten, and another, Björn, at the age of thirteen) and Matthias's back garden was a sanctuary for them both. It was a Viking ship when they were younger, and together they would take over the whole world, country by country (if you count the whole world as Denmark (where Matthias spends every holiday with his extended family; he still has a soft Danish accent), Sweden (by coincidence it is very similar with Berwald and Sweden), England, Scotland, Wales, America and France. (That was their combined knowledge of world geography, not counting Matthias's country of Køhlerland, Dominator of the World, which he insisted existed up until Berwald got hold of a map. And even then he tried to claim 'Russia' was a misprint.) Berwald was first mate and Matthias captain. Matthias quickly discovered that Berwald's lack of knowledge about play time meant that he would do whatever Matthias asked. He was isolated at school because of his scariness and lack of social skills, so he didn't have anything to compare it with.

Later on they just talked or played football or swingball in Matthias's wild and overgrown but well-loved and equipped garden. One day when they were nine, Matthias yelled over the fence with even more vigour than usual.

_The younger boy, who is only a few inches shorter than Matthias much to the Danish boy's disapproval, ambled over to the fence and climbed up the rope ladder they had surreptitiously installed (although Berwald's dad is a lot more easy-going these days; they mostly do it for the element of danger) with the same detached ease that permeated his every action. "There's this really cool thing we c'n do which means we'll be brothers, like, properly, forever and ever! I read it in a book in the teen section of the library! I didn't get a lot of it but still!"_

_A small smile that means he is really quite interested and happy, as per usual with these encounters. He never grins or shows teeth in his smile, and Matthias is slowly learning to read the more opaque subtleties of his expressions. "Wh't 'sit?"_

"_It's the blood brothers ceremony! It might be a bit hurty first but it'll be awesome afterwards, pinky swear!" _

_His expression shifts minutely from happy to suspicious and wary. "H'w d'y' mean h'rty?" Matthias grins even more. "'t's simple! You just cut your thumb, an' I cut mine, an' then we press them together. So your blood's in me, an' mine's in you, an' we're blood brothers forever an' ever!"_

_Berwald has his thinking face on. One of his more readable expressions. "Kay. D'y' h've a knife?" Matthias presented a rather sharp, but small, kitchen knife. "I made it super sharp. That way it hurts less. 'Kay, you do me and I'll do you. I'll go first cos I'm the awesomest." An almost imperceptible eye roll. Berwald held out his hand for the knife, but in a moment of confusion Matthias thought he'd misunderstood and cuts Berwald's thumb anyway. Unprepared the pain is much worse than it might've been, and a few tears spring in Berwald's eyes. Matthias quickly cuts his own thumb and presses it to Berwald's tightly. At the same time he draws the other boy into a comforting hug and wipes away his tears. _

"_Hey, c'mon, kid, it's ok. You're ok." He parts their hands, both splashed a little with red. "Look. Your blood's gone in my hand, now. And mine's in yours too." He smiles warmly and the other smiles weakly back. "We're connected forever now." _

_Berwald unexpectedly pulls the spikey-haired boy back into a hug. Matthias unexpectedly feels a bit warmer inside._

They both grew up a bit, and their little pairing grew. Both of Matthias's brothers were forced to be allowed to join by Matthias's mother, and later Tino, a boy from across the street, joined. Matthias and Berwald both started discovering things about themselves. Roughly along the lines of, 'If all my friends and all the TV shows say girls are gorgeous, why can't I see what the deal is?' Also, in Matthias's case, 'When did Berwald's arse get so great? Were his eyes always that blue?' And in Berwald's case, 'Tino is so cute. I will marry him when I am older.'

In response to the obvious growing closeness between Berwald and Tino, Matthias became aggressive and pushy. He was even more bossy than usual. Resentment from Berwald and Tino, who were a mere eight months younger than Matthias, grew and grew. Matthias and Berwald were suddenly distant in a way they never were before. Both of them sat on their sexuality like a spiked chair.

Eventually something had to give.

_They have identical sombre looks on their faces when they meet each other in the corridor._

"_W' need t' t'lk." Berwald has grown into a strapping man at only fifteen, whereas Matthias is long and lanky. Berwald is terrifying, and is kept away from. Matthias is considered weird and big headed. To a certain extent they only have each other. In distancing himself from Berwald etc., Matthias is more friendless than he would like to admit. He has Bruce, the loud Australian, that he can call a friend, and then only sort of. "Yeah, we do. Well, I need to talk to you, too." He suddenly decides he's waited long enough, he will confess, and fuck rejection. "Come round mine tonight, yeah?" _

_He smiles widely as he sees Berwald clamber over into his garden using the old, worn rope ladder that is still nailed to the fence._

_He runs down the stairs to greet his friend and they go up to his room._

_They sit on the bed next to each other, studiously avoiding eye contact. They are teenagers, after all. "You go first, kid." Matthias never stopped calling him that, even when the age gap became negligible. Berwald nods and starts, "I'm gay." His enunciation is unusually clear today. "Before you freak, this isn't a love confession. I'm telling you so you won't flip out when I tell you I have a boyfriend." Matthias's mind is racing. His heart begins to smoulder in his chest and he can practically feel bits falling off. 'It's Tino, oh, God, it's Tino.' "I'm going out with Tino, Matthias."_

_Matthias chuckles hollowly, all thought of confessing forgotten._

"_Of course you are. I'm surprised I didn't see it already." He had run up the stairs envisioning Hollywood-esque scenes of mutual confession and love hidden in fear of rejection. What happens in reality is pretty much what he would have considered the worst case scenario._

"_Wh't's th't s'posed to mean?" Berwald has his glare up to eleven and Matthias almost flinches. But he's too frozen. His brain has gone into shutdown and he just stares out of the window blankly._

"_J'sus, M'tt, knew y'd take 't badly b't not th's badly." There is a little desperation in his voice but still Matthias can't find it in himself to answer. He's not quite prepared to answer him yet._

_Berwald looks heartbroken. "'m… 't's st'll me, M'tt." Matthias just drops his head, hiding his face. His tears. "You don't care at all, do you?" He has a tendency to articulate when he is angry. Voice soft but clear. "I can't change who I am. What am I to you?" A pause._

"_Nothing, clearly. All this time, you didn't care. I change one thing and I'm dead to you. What do you think I am? Your __**lackey**__? Someone who revered you, did whatever you said, someone you could just use and boss around? I was just some fucking __**ego-booster**__? Even when we were kids…" By now it's like some kind of out-of-body experience. Matthias, the real Matthias, is watching this like a horror film, screaming at himself to say something, anything. The one in the real-life horror film does nothing._

"_I d'n't w'nt t' see y'anymore. D'n't wait f' me t' walk t' school w'th y'. I'll go w'th Tino." He walks toward the door. As he's almost gone, Matthias croaks out, "You can't leave. We're blood brothers, you and me. We're s'posed to be like brothers."_

_Berwald chuckles dryly and replies, "Y'r not my brother." He doesn't so much as look back._

Berwald and Tino began ignoring Matthias at school. The first day Matthias bounded up to Berwald when he saw him walking, like nothing happened. But Berwald just blanked him no matter what he said or did.

He couldn't face school without Berwald. He didn't like hanging around with Bruce, and anyway it wasn't fair to use the kid as a 'spare friend'. He discovered alcohol, beer to be precise, fell in with the wrong crowd. He began hanging around with the Dutch stoner, bunking off with the guy who got cheap Cuban cigars from his dad, and going out drinking with some nutty Russian kid and his terrified entourage. He would come in at two in the morning reeking of booze and weed. His grades plummeted, so he moved out of his school to a school a few miles away.

He picked himself up and began living his life again, away from Berwald and booze and weed. However he would often get drunk at home, alone, or cry himself to sleep.

His brother Norge decided enough was enough. Matthias was already sad enough without getting pissed alone in his room and crying himself to sleep. And his decision to do something coincided with his joining the same magic club as a certain quasi-alcoholic English punk, who he thought his brother would get on quite well with.

"_That's enough."_

_Matthias gazed up at his adoptive brother with tear stained eyes. "Wha-"_

"_There's someone I'd like you to meet. He's an idiot like you, but in a different way. You should get on well."_

_The spikey-haired teen looks distraught, "But he's not Berwald!" he semi-wailed._

"_If you do not at least meet him, I will confiscate your Carlsberg." That settles it for Matthias. Life without beer is like a broken pencil: pointless._

"_Come to my magic club on Thursday after school. Please try not to look utterly pathetic. He is pretty cool, even though he's an idiot, so he has standards." He doesn't wait for answer or a comeback, although he does add at the door, "I'm not doing this for you. I can hear you sobbing at night through the wall and it's keeping me up."_

_Matthias smiles weakly, "Sure, Norgie. I'm just so awesome everyone wants to help me."_

_Norge sends a withering look over his shoulder and continues, "So if anyone asks you're my overprotective brother keeping me safe from axe-muderers. And the word isn't 'awesome'. It's 'pitiful'." _

_Matthias was on his way up._


	13. How To Break A Heart, Part Two

**Warning: Contains mild violence, and my patented Inquisition!Spain personality. **

**I don't hate Spain as a character, I just see him as the southern European Russia. Because no-one is that cheerful unless they are insanely cheerful. Spain-lovers, do not hate on me please! Someone's got to be an arse after all, although I tried to make him human at least.**

* * *

How to Break a Heart, Part Two:_ To Scare the Devil Himself_

* * *

Antonio: 25

Lovino: 22

* * *

"Lovi~! I'm home!" Antonio was in a very cheerful mood indeed. He had just confirmed a weekend liaison with Francis, who had at last shaken off his pest of a boyfriend (or his irritating boyfriend had got rid of him, perhaps; the end result was the same for Antonio). On top of this he was in love with the most beautiful and amazing man in the world, who also loved him back, most of the time. Although of course head-butting him was just his dear Lovi's way of showing affection; his little tomato was so difficult to understand sometimes. But he loved him dearly.

The thing with Antonio was he didn't mean to hurt either Francis or Lovino (he would die before intentionally hurting his Lovi, dear God), so obviously for a little while he had ended whatever strange almost-relationship he had with the Frenchman. It was just that for all that Italians were supposedly great lovers, his Lovi could just not satisfy him in every way. He came to an agreement with his ex, and best friend, Francis; they would have a friends-with-benefits arrangement to fulfil Antonio's slightly… darker sexual ideals.

Put simply, he was a sadist or a masochist depending on his mood. His Lovi was too sweet and lovely, despite his cold front, to ever try anything non-vanilla. He still wasn't quite comfortable with topping, always panicking that whatever he was doing might be hurting Antonio or that he wasn't doing well enough. As adorable as this was, Antonio missed the fire and the burn. He never quite worked up the nerve to tell Lovino he didn't really mind if it hurt a little. No, really, _mi caro_, go as fast as you like. It made him squirm just thinking about it. So he would focus on pleasuring Lovino whenever they had sex and with Francis would indulge his basest desires.

It didn't count, as long as his heart belonged to only Lovino. That's what he always told himself.

It was awfully quiet, Antonio thought, for their flat. There would normally be the sound of the television blaring and Lovino snoring softly in front of it, still completely exhausted from working the late shift at the restaurant. And then Antonio would sit down just where his legs bent inwards into a V shape where he had curled up on the sofa (Lovino had the strangest habit of sleeping facing the sofa back) and stroking his hair until his little Italian woke up. Woke up and chucked a pillow semi-violently at him and called him a _bastardo_ for not waking him up sooner and now he'll be late for the restaurant and it's all your fault, you're lucky I love you or I'd be stabbing you right now, tomato idiot. But Antonio would just be grinning all over his face because the words he would have really heard were 'I love you'. And of course his only reply would be, "Love you too, Lovi." Lovino would grumble quietly under his breath for a second before pecking him on the lips and shuffling upstairs to make himself look decent before heading to work.

Antonio would make something simple for Dinch as they called the strange inbetweeny meal that was the only one they ate together (both of them working slightly odd hours, Antonio on a market stall and Lovino as sous chef at a small but reliable Italian restaurant. It was how they met, in fact. Before Lovino was promoted he often went to the market stall to buy ingredients _en masse. _He would often be chatted loudly at by an overly friendly Spaniard fruit-and-vegetable seller who seemed to make it his mission to melt the angry Italian's heart; the green-eyed Spaniard eventually succeeded and they had lived together for three years.) Then Antonio would go to bed and Lovino to work. Quite often sex would be in this in-between period, so could be rushed and was rarely talked about or explored further. There was always some noise, the television blaring, or perhaps the radio tuned a Spanish football channel.

But not today. The quiet seemed to settle over everything like a fine layer of silt or dust. It was like a rare day in Britain when it snowed and sound seemed slightly muffled. It was utterly silent. The hum of cars from the nearby ring road seemed to disappear. There was not even the comforting tick of a clock to alleviate the silence, to remind Antonio that actually, he was still alive. The only clock they had was the painfully quiet digital display of the oven.

His footsteps rang like gunshots down their carpeted hall. A creaky floorboard made him flinch. An irrational feeling of dread dispersed through his body.

His eyes alighted on auburn hair; the solitary curled strand was a little knotted and frazzled, a sure sign of stress in the Italian. Antonio was more than slightly alarmed to see a cocktail glass drained on the table next to a two-thirds empty bottle of vodka – Lovino rarely drank and wine was his tipple of choice when he did.

He gently placed a hand on Lovino's head and brushed some hair out of his eyes. "Lovino, _mi caro_? Are you OK?" He was a little shocked to find Lovino just brushed him off. No outbursts, yelling or even affection. Just… cold. Like when they first met. Worse than that, maybe.

"Get off me." Lovino's eyes were bloodshot but sharp and his words were clear and coherent. He wasn't drunk. He might've been a while ago, but not now. "And it's Romano, to you, thank you." This was all said very quietly, and the distinct lack of swear words was starting to worry Antonio a little. "What is wrong? Did I do something?" He desperately searched through his mind looking for something he might've done. He ignored the thought that proclaimed he already knew exactly what he'd done.

Lovino chuckled a little bitterly. "Che. I don't know, maybe cheating on me with Francis for the entire duration of our relationship? Is that 'something'?" Antonio thought he felt his body temperature drop by a couple of degrees. He knew people calls him oblivious but as he looked around panicking (not avoiding eye contact, oh, no) he couldn't help but wonder how he missed what looked like the remains of a shot glass scattered liberally over an area of the kitchen floor near the back wall. Or the reddish stain illustrating the wallpaper as a memento of the glass-wall collision. Or the pile of things in the hall that seemed to consist entirely of his possessions.

It all came crashing home for Antonio. It was over. His perfect life with his perfect boyfriend and his perfect lover was finished. He would have to move out and God knows Francis wouldn't take him in, couldn't have anything resembling a full time lover in the house because what if he was another Arthur, who seemed to be the only one other than Gilbert able to stomp on Francis's seemingly bulletproof heart without even really meaning to. Francis wouldn't let someone in his heart again for a long time, oh, no. If he ever did it wouldn't be Antonio. For old memories tainted him, as if dyed in his very skin, a convenient scapegoat for, reminder of, Francis's failed relationship. Thinking about it, Francis had been rather less eager to arrange any more of their encounters of late. Arthur's absence and Antonio's presence were inextricably tangled together. And Francis couldn't _**stand**_it. It made pretending to be okay so very much harder because while Francis's logical side blamed himself, his human side _**screamed**_ whenever he saw Antonio, _your fault, your fault he left, your fault I'm alone and heartless, your fault that you're all I have now. _

In the same second he realised that he already knew this, that this was just him coming out of denial. He knew his 'fun' with Francis was coming to an end, and he discovered that before now he didn't really care. He would break it off or Francis would, and he would have Lovino and Lovino alone, and be satisfied. And they would dance off into the sunset together and live happily ever after _(and maybe get a little more adventurous sexually but that can wait for the minute)._

As long as he had Lovino, he was completely fine.

But now all of it was ending and they were leaving him behind, Lovino and Francis both. _And why did it have to end now? It was so perfect, dear God, could I not just have a little longer? Or Satan, if you're listening, you can have my immortal soul for just a few more years of this, please. Let me have just a few years more. Then I will let them go and begin again. But I'm not ready now. Just. Please._

His prayers, holy and satanic, went unanswered, as they always seemed to (perhaps this was the time to give up organised religion. As if he even vaguely followed any of the rules anyway, despite proudly proclaiming himself a Catholic.) The few seconds this thought train took to reach its destination was enough for Lovino – no, Romano, now – to decide no excuse, alibi or reason was to be forthcoming. Lovino couldn't say he expected one.

All he got was "Who told you?" He couldn't even work up the strength to use their nicknames.

"Gilbert and Arthur, although Arthur didn't really want to. Gilbert told me and Arthur stopped me slitting my wrists." Romano smiled weakly. "So don't blame them. Blame yourself." No nicknames, again.

The levels of panic rose and rose in Antonio. His old friend betrayed him like that? But why? Yeah, he had never been the best of boyfriends, but that was Lovino's problem. The Bad Touch Trio stuck together! He had no reason to interfere!

Gilbert had stuck with them even when he and Francis spent the whole time with their tongues down each other's throats. Thinking about it, when that whole arrangement started Gilbert not only lost Arthur. He lost his two best friends, his trio and his evenings with them. Seems he had a reason after all. But that was hardly the issue at hand.

He sat down heavily in the chair. Panicking and begging would get one nowhere with Lov- Romano, he knew. His last chance was to explain this properly and hope it was good enough for Romano. He didn't know if he could stop himself from crying _keep a lid on his temper_. The kitchen seemed to grow before him, the walls began to expand upwards and outwards. His vision swayed and bucked and he had to steady himself. He felt like he might be having a panic attack.

"Romano. I love you, not Francis. But, I have certain, um, needs. That I would not want to try with you. You might call them kinks, perhaps. I want to talk but you are so busy all of the time, and then Francis was just there and he offered, and it all seemed so perfect because I could love you without ever feeling unsatisfied – not that you are not satisfying, it is just…"

This was all babbled out rather quickly, and the name 'Romano' tasted strange on his tongue. The man in question was quite red after the speech, and his face was twisted in a frown. The brown eyes (flecked with gold when closely examined) pinned Antonio to his seat. "I don't want to know about your perversions. You went to Francis rather than just talk to me." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, and I know it sounds stupid now, but it made sense at the time, please, Lovi- Romano, I will never do it again, please…"

"Shut up, and get out. Just leave." Antonio was a little angry now. Yes, they were breaking up, which was bad enough, but Romano knew full well he had nowhere to go. He didn't have to just kick him out. "No." Lovino looked up when he heard how cold Antonio's voice was. "I said leave. Your stuff is in the hall." He stood up from his seat and slammed palms on the table. "And I said no." Antonio also stood up and Romano became suddenly aware of the height difference between them. Three inches never seemed quite so important.

"Listen. I'll give you ten minutes to gather up anything I might've forgotten. If you do not leave then, I will call the police." The glare from those olive eyes was the most terrifying thing Romano had ever seen. He had to try very hard to stop his voice wavering.

"I think I will stay here for now, actually. With you." The Spaniard walked round and placed his hand on the smaller man's shoulder. The gesture was in no way comforting. The taller man seemed to tower over him. He backed up a bit. Antonio hadn't been like this since he'd met him, although once or twice, at bars…

"_Venga aquí, puto._" Hissed, barely above a whisper, were these words. Lovino didn't whimper. Not at all.

The look in Antonio's eyes would have scared the devil, though. "_No!_ _Vaffanculo, non sono una puttana! Sei la puttana qui!_" Antonio took a step, and then another. A thought drifted unhelpfully through Lovino's head: _Maybe he is the devil._ From this angle, the similarities seemed remarkable.

The next words were deadly quiet. "Lovi~... _Ese lenguaje malo, no es la bueno conducta...__¿__Necesita un castigo?_" Neither was quite sure when they switched to their native languages.

Antonio had done this sort of thing, said this sort of thing, tens of times. But now it was his Lovi beneath him, and he looked so scared, and Antonio felt so powerful, he almost didn't notice when he slammed his Lovino onto the table, his back bent at an uncomfortable angle. There were a few tears in the smaller man's eyes. "_Lasciami andare! Per favore!"_

Antonio did not let go. He didn't exactly know where he was going with this, but he was so angry. How dare Lovino ruin his perfect life? How dare he?

"_¡Cállate, perra! ¿Quieres arruinar mi vida? Te amo, Lovino, te amo!"_

Romano thought he might cry. Where was his Antonio, the sweet, light hearted one to his angry bastard? Where did this... this psychopath that swung so wildly between loving and hating him come from? _"Lasciatemi! Lascia! Ora!" _

Antonio saw red. "_¡Escuchamé! ¡Te amo! ¡Yo no voy! ¡Te necesito, Lovi!"_

Lovino saw red. "_Io no ti voglio!_"

There seemed to be a moment of silence before it happened. Antonio's face went deadly calm as he drew back his hand. Lovino's eyes widened; he refused to believe what was happening.

The slap rung out through the kitchen. The silence was crushing. Lovino did not cry. No tears came as his body struggled to link the pain, and the hand that caused it, to his adoring Spanish lover standing blank-faced above him.

Antonio leant forward, still so very angry, and dealt the killing blow. "_Siempre prefería tu hermano, de todos modos._"Lovino froze up as Antonio walked away having just confirmed his worst suspicions, dreads, nightmares. He slid to the floor once the Spaniard let go of his wrists and curled up in a ball.

Now the tears came. Freely, they flooded down his face as his emotions smashed through his carefully-laid brick wall of anger and sobs wracked his body. _Francis, Feliciano… fuck, I'm not even his second choice. I could never satisfy him, so how could he love me._

Antonio wasn't exactly sure what had just happened. Shell-shocked, he swept his slightly trampled collection of possessions into a bag, and took what he had brought home with him – phone, wallet, keys, satchel. In his daze, or perhaps his denial, he thought he might ever use the keys again. Or be able to use them, even. Certainly Lovino would change the locks after this.

One foot stepped over the threshold _when we first moved in I insisted on carrying you over it bridal-style, do you remember, Lovi? _and then another. The door seemed to close behind him.

_What have I done? He'll never take me back now, never, never, never…_

Fat tears burned his cheeks. He promised he would never let his temper control him like that again, but now he allowed it to, the one time it really mattered.

He looked out from the balcony across the insalubrious urban vista. He hoped it might rain properly, for once, in this drizzle-dampened country.

It was grey, that day. Flecks of rain dotted the ground, but no torrent came.

Two men sat curled on the floor, and cried. One door and a million miles separated them.

* * *

**Translations:**

_**Spanish:**_

**Mi caro – my dear**

**Venga aquí, puto – Come here, man-whore/male prostitute. Pretty much the most offensive term for a gay man you can use in Spain. Sorry, Spanish people, I mean no offense.**

**Ese lenguaje malo, no es la buena conducta – That bad language, it's not good behaviour**

**¿Necesita un castigo? – Do you need a punishment?**

**Cállate, perra – Shut up, bitch**

**¿Quieres arruinar mi vida? – Do you want to ruin my life?**

**Escuchamé - Listen to me**

**Te amo – I love you**

**(Yo) no voy – I am not going**

**Te necesito – I need you**

**S****iempre prefería tu hermano, de todos modos – I have always preferred your brother, anyway**

_**Italian:**_

**Vaffancula – Fuck you, though culturally milder than that**

**Non sono una puttana – I am not a whore**

**Sei la puttana qui – You are the whore here**

**Lasciami andare – Let me go**

**Per favore – Please**

**Lasciatemi – Get off me**

**Lascia – Leave**

**Ora – Now**

**(Io) no ti voglio – I do not want you**

**Read and review. I think it's drawing to a close, finally. Although I have about a million ideas buzzing around my head. This is instead of a Saturday update for any of my stories, btw.**

**If you're reading Please Don't etc. then Spain and Austria should be up on Sunday as per.**

**ASAS xx **


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